


AVALON

by Erinye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Male Slash, Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Post Reichenbach, a bit of angst, courtship - sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinye/pseuds/Erinye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's suicide, Detective Inspector Lestrade tries to ease his own guilt investigating on Sherlock's death. And he happens to get involved with Mycroft a lot more - and a lot differently - than he would have thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fallen Knight

**Author's Note:**

> It's the first time I publish something on this site and the first time I write a fanfiction in a language that's not mine own.  
> Every kind of advices will be greatly welcome, from grammar tips to plot issues! 
> 
> The title "Avalon" refers to the mythical island in King Arthur's legend and it was suggested to me by Moriarty's story about sir 'Boast-a-lot' and the king's doubts on him.

It was a day the Yarders were going to remember, shaping it in a – more or less faithful – myth for an entire generation of officers and inspectors. But Lestrade’s most vivid memory was bound to be the unbearable heat of the tea spilled out of his cup, the rough burn of the trousers stuck on his thigh.   
All the rest was confused.  
There must have been a brief silence, when Lestrade had been overtaken by a desperate shame for his own clumsiness. He had been so bloody unprepared: all was _falling_ around him.  
Under Anderson’s silly gaze, shame had become rage and had burnt every single bit of Lestrade’s composure. With an agility he hadn’t shown in the last ten years - buried very carefully under his disputable food habits – Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had attacked Anderson. He had dragged him on the floor before the other man could react with more than a choked moan, then he had punched him.    
Although they were all exhausted after the night spent on Holmes’s tail, they had soon cut off the fight: two officers had grabbed Lestrade by the arms and taken him away from Anderson, who was spitting blood on the carpet – Sergeant Donovan beside him.  
Blood _and a teeth_ , Lestrade had noticed, with a hint of dark exhilaration.   
  
Few minutes later, Lestrade was looking at Lipman & Sons’ window, right on the other side of the Broadway. The officers – he could not remember their names – had him walked out of the Yard, never ceasing to support him by the arms. Not a single word from them. Greg, suddenly exhausted, had just given up to their kind grip.  
One of the officers had volunteered to call a cab for the DI. Probably because he seemed drunk – soft legs, flushed face, wild eyes. But Greg had shaken away the officers’ hands and had snorted something about needing a walk.   
Anderson wasn’t really esteemed among the Yarders: on another day, many of them would have shaken hands with the one who had punched Anderson’s face. But even Anderson had never succeeded in arousing so much hate as Sherlock Holmes had done.Then Lestrade was the _leper_. No one would have properly accused him of what happened – apart from Anderson, maybe Donovan too – because, after all, everyone can lose control. But each one of them would have been extremely relieved knowing that _this_ happened to DI Lestrade; he was the one who had chosen the wrong side of the battle, trusting Holmes and risking all. _A good DI_ , they were saying about him, _but always too easily impressed by Holmes’s tricks_.  
And Sherlock Holmes was nothing but a common criminal – a smart one, let’s admit it, but Sally Donovan was perfectly right: a fellow like that, later or sooner, changes his side.   
Greg hid his face in his hand. His forehead was covered in cold sweat. At the corner of his eye, he saw Lipman  & Sons’ clerk spying on him, perhaps trying to guess how much time he was going to spend before the shop windows. Lestrade thought of buying a tie: Linda, his wife – _his almost ex-wife_ , had always been able to reach the peace of mind draining the credit card. Before he could really lose himself to the horror of taking Linda as a model, Greg realized he had let his wallet and his badge on the desk.  
What did Anderson say? _From St. Bart’s rooftop._     
He didn’t hope to see the body or interrogate the witnesses: Lestrade was somehow under the impression that not the incredible flight of Sherlock of the last night nor Anderson’s tooth on the office carpet, would have been in his favour with the Chief Superintendant.  Quite the contrary: he will be suspended. _Take a holiday, DI Lestrade_ , his smile screaming: _Get out of my way, you bloody idiot_.  
Lestrade, head down, turned on Dacre Street. He sensed that behind the flawless surface, beyond the reflection of the buildings and the shadow-weaved sky, dozens of Yarders were studying his steps, keeping a close eye over the lost sheep, the king-gone-mad.  
For the first time since the day he had become a cop, Greg was strangely pleased without his badge.  
When he got in Ludgate, the sky was livid. Only St. Paul shone white in the light choked by the clouds. Lestrade wondered if he was supposed to pray. He had never been a believer and he was almost sure there was something blasphemous in Sherlock’s behaviour, but he was desperately trying to find a way to be useful.  
He had few alternatives: no need to be picky.  
 _God, take care of Sherlock Holmes because…_ Greg tried to think of a good reason for a higher power to protect Sherlock… _because he could prove your nonexistence or ineptitude.  
_ Not at all satisfied, but proud of his attempt, Lestrade resumed his walk to St. Bart’s.

It was raining, sharp drops like pins, and Greg tried to raise a corner of the coat on his head.  
When he arrived, it was quieter than he had expected. A little area around the bus stop was marked off and people had to walk around the stained footpath. Three officers had been left to check the zone, but rain was making everyone more impatient.  
Rain was also washing away the traces of blood.  
Lestrade needed to lean against the phone box. The officers didn’t take notice of him - maybe they preferred ignoring him: the news of his _intermezzo_ with Anderson was already spread, for sure.   
Then Sherlock Holmes had just gone away, so quietly?  
Where were the journalists who had followed him during the last days, step after step? Where was the police, the police he had helped and humiliated on god-knows how many occasions?  
A stripe of pink, watery blood was sliding off the footpath. Suddenly, Greg Lestrade understood.  
Before Anderson had opened his office door, surprising him drinking the third or fourth cup of tea since dawn - someone, somewhere in the Yard, had already decided: the news of the suicide had to be kept from him as long as possible. DI Lestrade was too fascinated by the notorious consulting detective, to be clear-headed. They could not involve him more than he was already.  
This death had better to be the end – a sad one, but also very well-timed – of a scandal which could have been shaken Scotland Yard kingdom to the grounds. DI Lestrade’s position was at stake and what they had done had been done in his behalf. Even if he had permitted to Sherlock Holmes to make a fool of them all, the Yard looked after its children.  
How long had they waited? Two hours, three?  
Had Anderson been chosen to carry the news? Had he wanted to see Lestrade’s face while he was reporting Holmes’s death? Greg should have punched him one more time.  
He had nothing more to do. Maybe...he could phone John Watson.  
If someone could know something – _someone to talk with_ – that would be Watson. Since the first time Holmes had carried Dr Watson on a crime scene, Lestrade had been sure that if one of them was hanging around, the other was near.  
 _Where the hell did I leave my phone?_ On the desk, beside the badge and the wallet.  
While reproaching himself for his own distraction, Lestrade realized that there was someone near. Under an apple-green raincoat, the white gown dawning under that, Molly Hooper was staring at him, like she wasn’t sure at all about what she was going to say. He saw her moving the weight of her body from feet to feet, swaying another moment under her little flowered umbrella, then clearing her voice.  
\- Can I offer you a cup of tea, Detective Inspector Lestrade?

***

A couple of drops fell from the tea spoon, then Molly placed it on the saucer.  
The tearoom was very quiet, enlivened only by the tinkling of the dishes and by the quick pace of the waitress. Lestrade had taken his seat on the other side of the little table and he was devouring cookies with the ferocity of a man deprived of a decent meal for too long.  
Molly watched him from behind the cup she had brought to her lips.  
His face was lined and tired and his grip on the cup was slightly trembling. His grey hair and his coat were damp with rain, somehow deepening the DI’s wretched look. Dr Hooper had a long experience with stray animals and she was able to recognize one at first sight. But in this case a cup of milk and a blanket were not enough. Besides – _fool Molly Hooper!_ – the Detective Inspector was a man and not an abandoned puppy: her experience about men was so modest – and so disastrous – that she didn’t know what to do.  
It would have been simpler doing him a favour about a corpse, but this time...  
 _Oh, helping Sherlock Holmes has never been so difficult: being here with Lestrade is an error!_  
But the Detective Inspector raised his eyes on her: the dazed, slightly imploring, expression on his face made Molly give up her plan to flee, stuttering about acorpse waiting for her.  
\- How are you, Detective Inspector? – she asked, kindly.  
He tried to smile, but he failed and Molly saw the same suffering astonishment she had seen at the Christmas party, when Sherlock had revealed Lestrade’s wife was dating another man.  
\- How are you, Molly? – he asked in return.  
\- Well, I...- she made a sudden gesture, because the mere idea of lying made her nervous, and the milk jug rolled towards the end of the table. Lestrade caught it, but not without knocking down his own cup and spilling the remaining tea on his trousers.  
\- Already stained – was his laconic comment.     
\- But...is that _blood_? –Molly asked, while Lestrade was messing around with a napkin. He raised his head at her words and followed her gaze to acknowledge that _yes_ , there were few drops of blood on his shirt.   
\- A disagreement at the Yard – he explained, after a moment.  
\- We are all a bit...  
\- _Guilty?  
_ \- I was going to say _hurt_ – she babbled, impressed by the dark twist of Lestrade’s gaze.  
\- I don’t know if I’m hurt _now_. I’m not so sure it’s true, yet.  
-  It’s true – Molly said, more roughly she had intended.  
\- _How much_ true? – the DI insisted, shaking his greying head. – I mean...Molly, you have never thought Sherlock Holmes could...- he choked the napkin between his fingers - ... _kill himself?_  
\- I didn’t know him so well – Molly defended herself, flattening her back against the chair and unconsciously assuming the attitude of a reticent witness before the stubborn DI.  
\- Me neither. None of us knew him, I believe. Maybe Watson.  
\- Yes. He did – said Molly, with a feeble voice, almost hurt.  
\- We know nothing about Sherlock...absolutely, bloody nothing. On the other side, he knew all about us: he had only to look and he was able to say things...sometimes things I didn’t know about me. _Horrible_ things, usually – Lestrade admitted, and for a moment he was following who knows what memory. – Do you think he’s dead because of this?  
\- Because he knew us?  
\- I mean because of his mania to know everything, to find out everything. The way he worked...- the DI tightened his lips and slightly raised his head - ...you should have seen him. He seemed unable to stay still, always busy jumping from one side to another of the crime scene and giving orders, me and John behind like shy schoolboys. And I swear, I swear I tried every single time to follow his explanations, to see through his eyes, to learn...but he was always so quick, so brilliant. _I can’t imagine him sleeping_ – he confessed slowly. – How can I believe him dead?  
\- You _have to_ , Detective Inspector – Molly burst out.  
Her loyalty to Sherlock Holmes gave her voice an unusual harshness. Fortunately, Lestrade wasn’t watching her – he was staring at the crumbs on the cloth – because he could have seen in her eyes all the effort to keep the truth inside.   
She was afraid to betray herself at any moment, to let slip words too many, tears not enough; and if it was so difficult with DI Lestrade, how more difficult it could have been with Watson? Yet, she had been unable to resist: when she had seen Lestrade out in the rain, she had took pity on him. She had even felt guilty, for the warm secret she cherished in her heart, while that poor DI was standing there, astonished.     
\- I know, I know, I should accept this...- he was mumbling. All of sudden, he raised his eyes, slightly enlarged. Without warnings, Lestrade’s hand closed on hers and she emitted a soft squeak, like the one of a mouse captured by a cat. – What can I do? I’d like to do something...  
\- Go home, Detective Inspector – she murmured, trying to withdraw her hand but failing. His hand weighed on hers and he seemed unconscious about it. – Have a good sleep, have a full meal. Don’t torture yourself.   
\- I think it’s my fault. _Also_ , at least.  
\- I know you respected him, Detective Inspector.  
\- I believe Sherlock Holmes was the most irritating man had ever walked on this Earth. When Sherlock Holmes was hanging around, we were all _so little_ – eventually Lestrade let go her hand. – And I was once too often. I tried to arrest him, you know.  
\- This is not related to his death.  
\- If this is a suicide, it’s linked.  
Molly Hooper was holding her hands in her lap, fearing Lestrade could be still in the mood for confidence. Her head was throbbing.   
\- _If_ this is a suicide, Molly.  
Lestrade was leaning against the chair and there was a shadow of tension on his face.  
He was probably waiting for a sign from her, but Molly didn’t want to encourage his theories.  
\- I believe there was something... _insane_ in Holmes – he spoke again, before her silence. – I can easily imagine him putting a bullet in someone’s skull to prove one of his ideas. And I believe this is the reason why I don’t know if...  
\- ...if he was _a criminal_? – Molly interrupted him. She was blinking quickly, like someone trying to stop tears. Lestrade froze, embarrassed.  
\- More someone who had lost control of the situation – he corrected himself, cautiously.  
\- Sherlock knows the limit – Molly defended him, so quickly she made a little mistake. They were both unconscious of it, however, or maybe he didn’t gave it much attention: talking in the present tense about the dead is quite a common behaviour.  
\- Every working day teaches me that the limit is really different for each one of us – he replied, wearily. – I’m not saying that he truly kidnapped those children and built crimes and riddles, but I can believe it, even if it looks cruel. No matter how _I don’t want_ to believe this.  
\- So there’s nothing you can do, Detective Inspector – whispered Molly, her voice swinging from resentment to sorrow.  
\- But I don’t believe Sherlock Holmes was the kind of madmen who launches himself from the top of a building – he continued, as he had not listened to her.  
\- Why is so important to you? He’s dead.  
If Greg Lestrade had been a more cultivated observer, he could have noticed that Molly’s fingers were closed on the edge of the table, gripping with so much force the stained tablecloth to show her whitened knuckles. If he saw that nervous gesture he weighed it on the grief for Sherlock Holmes’s death.  
His death was the only thing he took for sure. His faith in Sherlock Holmes had been withering since Donovan and Anderson had forced Lestrade into a corner, the chill of doubt creeping into his bones.  
Greg would have never admitted it to Molly Hooper or John Watson, maybe not even to himself, but there was this dark and unnameable side of him which was angry at Sherlock and found relief in his death. _Sherlock Holmes, criminal mind_ : this was the most painful idea and the most dangerous one,  because he could have killed Sherlock Holmes for it.  
\- If I find out something, something proving it was not a suicide – he tried to explain, - I’ll feel less guilty.  
\- If he was murdered...- Molly started to say, but she was interrupted.  
\- There would be a criminal on the loose. Something _for me_.  
\- Are you going to investigate?  
\- Maybe there won’t be an investigation at all. However I’m not going to be involved. I could be suspended – he confessed, raising his voice as trying the effect of such a statement.  
He was surprised at discovering he wasn’t upset how much he should have been.  
\- Because of that... _disagreement_? – asked Molly, giving a glance to the dark marks on Lestrade’s shirt.  
\- Because of that, but I believe they could also find out that I..well, I informed John Watson we were going to arrest Sherlock Holmes.  
He knew the weight of his choice. He could be expelled from the Yard, sent on traffic duty.  
Molly Hooper stared at the Detective Inspector and her feelings for him softened. Sherlock’s collaboration with Lestrade had never been a coincidence: the consulting detective would have probably given very convincing, aseptic and rational reasons for their cooperation, some of them would have been even insulting from Lestrade’s point of view. But Molly believed Sherlock was not completely conscious of the greatest of his talents - the ability of surrounding himself with good people. _Extraordinarily good._  
John Watson was. Mrs. Hudson was. And she, Molly Hooper, was trying so hard to be. And then there was Lestrade, and Gregory Lestrade was a good man, now she knew for sure.  
\- You didn’t betray him – she murmured, with a relieved smile.  
 _What if he betrayed us?_ Lestrade wondered, but he buried the question under other words.   
\- I don’t know what I can do. Not official inquiries, anyway.  
\- Are you sure of this, Detective Inspector? Your job...  
\- I owe him. I owe myself. _Us_. Those who believed.  
\- Those who believe – Molly corrected him.  
\- I’d like to be as sure as you are – he admitted, shaking his head. – I’m sorry about what he said to you at Christmas – he suddenly added.  
\- It was nothing – she said, while her cheeks were reddening.  
\- He was awful.  
\- He never meant to hurt.  
\- _Never_?  
Molly fell into silence. Detective Inspector was a good man, but he was devoured by doubts. She understood, but she could not accept it nor contradict him.  
\- Can you help me, Molly Hooper?  
\- I’ll try – she lied, pale now.  
\- Don’t look for me at Scotland Yard. Do you have a pen? – and when the woman found it in her bag, he scribbled down something on a corner of the paper napkin. – There. This is my address and my private number. If something comes up...  
\- I’ll call you – she said abruptly, putting the napkin in the bag like she wanted to bury it.  
They raised from the table, and Lestrade insisted on paying the bill, except that he remembered not having a single pound in his pockets - she paid. It was pouring down when they parted and Molly watched the Detective Inspector disappear with the coat clumsily drawn on his head.  
 _Please, Sherlock, come back soon_ , Molly Hooper thought, while opening the umbrella.

***

They had left John Watson behind.   
Alone by the gravestone. He had no need to ask for it: the little party had broken by tacit agreement. Molly Hooper had been the first one to leave, walking away in a hurry, a tissue pressed on her face – the Detective Inspector had imagined her bursting into tears once in the cab.  
There were two or three weird figures, who had kept themselves at a distance from the quick funeral service. Lestrade had heard John pointing one of the vagrants to Mrs. Hudson: _I don’t know his name, but Sherlock often used his information. Trustworthy. A gentleman._  
But also those last, faithful informants had left, vanishing in the bowels of London. There was no trace of those Sherlock had helped case after case. There were no journalists either.  
The funeral had been organized with the greatest discretion. Greg himself knew about it only because of John Watson. It had been the first and last time, after Holmes’s death, they had talked: it had been a short and too formal conversation, but he had not tried to break the reserve in Watson’s flat voice. _After the funeral_ , Greg had promised himself.  
And now the funeral was gone and the grass was tender under the shoes, the air so heavy and humid and crackling with pain to crush them all to the ground. The DI was not enough near Watson – no one was – to hear his words, but he was sure he was talking to Sherlock’s grave.   
He had to take his eyes off the broken figure of John Watson.  
\- _Touching_ , isn’t it?  
Greg jumped. Mycroft Holmes was at his side.  
He had stood alone during the service, away from them all, with his umbrella stuck in the soft earth. Not a single quiver of pain, but only his body leaning on the umbrella, both his hands closed on the handle. The unstable pose had made Greg think of a man ready to leave.  
But now Holmes was there, with the unsatisfied look of someone who has still something to do. And Lestrade slightly gasped, without knowing how to reply.  
There was a hint of sympathy in Mycroft’s voice, but not enough to hidden that mix of surprise and repulse Sherlock had used too many times before weakness and sentimentalism.   
\- Damn– Greg growled, in a low tone.  
\- Did I offend your feelings, Detective Inspector? – asked Mycroft, smoothly.  
Lestrade wanted to free himself from his company, but he already knew how difficult was to flee from the Holmes.  
How much different they had been and how harsh had been their fights! And yet Sherlock and Mycroft had shared the same ability to impose themselves on the others’ lives, the same taste for bossing around. But if Sherlock was impetuous, wild, with an inclination to tantrum, his brother was a snake in the grass, a creature at ease among shadows, hidden behind anonymous numbers and the dark windows of diplomatic cars.  
Involving Sherlock Holmes in an investigation for the first time and for the first time accepting to keep a close eye on the same Sherlock in behalf of his brother were irreversible steps. Gregory Lestrade had taken both. In the end, he knew that if one of the Holmes brothers wants to speak to you, you cannot do anything but listen.    
\- He was your brother – he reminded him, with exhausted slowness, syllable after syllable, while turning to face Mycroft’s monstrous composure.  
The broad forehead of the man slightly wrinkled, his mouth line hardened.  
\- _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_ – he recited without flustering. – My little brother’s words – he added, with a smile which froze Lestrade’s blood.  
The DI shook his head, trying to free himself from Mycroft’s thick voice.  
\- It’s not the way I want to remember him.  
\- And how are you going to remember him, Detective Inspector, if not for what _we_ know about him? – the other man insinuated. – Are you going to believe what is written in the newspapers?  
\- Screw the journalists – replied Lestrade, rage choking his voice.   
After Kitty Riley’s scoop, they had launched themselves on every piece of story like a pack of wolves. Even Lestrade himself had been busy fleeing from their innuendos.   
\- I should thank you for giving voice to your opinion, a really convincing if short opinion indeed – answered Mycroft, graciously. – In spite of how much this conversation is troubling you, I hope you are close to realize we have more than an opinion in common.  
\- What are you talking about?  
\- I had the chance of talking with the miss from the morgue, Dr Molly Hooper.  
\- You mean you had her picked up by one of your minions, like you did god knows how many times to me or John Watson? – inquired Greg, adumbrated.  
\- I sense a certain hint of _resentment_ in your voice, Detective Inspector – Holmes noticed, raising a brow. – Should I deduce you regret the kindness of granting me your help a few times?   
\- You Holmes...- Lestrade started to say, but he closed his mouth.  
\- Please, go on.  
\- You’re right. I collaborated, once or twice – he admitted, between his gritted teeth. – Because you’re in the British government. And because I believed you sincerely give a damn about your brother.  
\- Did anything change, Detective Inspector?  
\- Sherlock Holmes is dead.  
\- What is troubling you? My brother's death or the possibility he was a criminal?  
Greg held his breath. Mycroft had easily hit the sore point. But he didn’t want to give him any sort of satisfaction, so he avoided his bright and inquisitive eyes.  
\- Doctor Hooper told me you want to investigate – continued Mycroft, gaining a sidelong glance from Lestrade. – It has been a bit difficult persuading her to trust me with her confidence, but I know how...encourage a friendly talk. I am under the impression you don’t believe in the suicide hypothesis, do you?    
\- Maybe.  
\- Despite your being perfectly aware of some...self-destructive tendencies shown by Sherlock in the past?  
\- I just want to do my work.  
\- But you are _suspended_ , Detective Inspector Lestrade...- said Mycroft, eyelids slightly closing and head tilting to the left. There was something bloody dramatic in his manners, able to fascinate and repel at the same time. His omniscience inspired the same feelings.   
Greg clenched his fists and, noticing his anger was not lost to Holmes, he stuffed them in his coat pockets.  
\- Well, it could be worse – resumed Mycroft, studying him from head to foot. – From my point of view you are in the perfect position to lead a private and discreet investigation. _Discretion_ , as you must have noticed, is a great concern of mine.  
Lestrade was not at all a man inclined to die for his pride, but Mycroft’s behaviour managed to tickle it.  
\- I’m not at your service, Mr Holmes – Greg replied, quite irritated.  
\- Oh, no, _unfortunately_ you are not – Holmes acknowledged, with a slight thrill. – But I’ll be grateful, how much a man in my position can be, if you keep me informed about the developments.  
\- What if I’m not planning to?  
Mycroft seemed to think how to wear Lestrade’s resistance down.  
He caressed his chin, letting his long elegant fingers slipping on the carefully shaved skin.  
\- Detective Inspector, I’m placing my bet on you – he said, with steady but soft voice. Even friendly, being Mycroft Holmes speaking. – Considering you are the one who showed at my brother’s door with a bench warrant in the night preceding his death, you should think more highly, if not more gratefully, of my trust in you.  
Greg turned pale. Without even caring to answer back, he tried to leave. He needed to put how much distance was possible between himself and that man.  
But Holmes stopped his retreat. With his right hand tightly closed on the umbrella, he was now pressing its handle against Lestrade’s chest.  
Greg felt his blood swiftly rushing to his head. _What does he bloody think to do?_  
Maybe he had putted on weight over years, his reflexes were slower and he had been too self-indulgent, but he was still a cop and he didn’t like to be forced into a corner.  
Mycroft Holmes was really thinking to overcome him? He was going to break his damned umbrella.  
\- What else do you want, Mr Holmes? – he asked, barely controlling himself.  
And Mycroft, taking off the umbrella from Lestrade’s body...  
\- Take care of yourself, Detective Inspector.

***

Lestrade opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, in a decent impression of a goldfish in a bowl. Mycroft’s words were not alike anything he was waiting for. The surprise was so piercing that the tension in his muscles disappeared in a breath.  
And Mr Holmes was gone too.  
Greg gave a look: Mycroft was leaving, his pace elegant and quick: it looked like he had postponed his leaving only to talk with him. Did Mycroft Holmes, _the British government_ , really need him – a common _and currently suspended_ Detective Inspector – to investigate about his brother’s death?  
The idea was annoyingly appealing.  
He shook his head, blaming himself for the inopportune vanity and looked for John Watson. He found him with Mrs Hudson leaning on his arm. When there were but few gravestones between them and Lestrade, Mrs Hudson raised her eyes on the DI. At the speed permitted by her hip – rather slowly, in other words – she swooped upon DI Lestrade.  
\- You...you! – she hissed, fingers torturing the little bag and her face contracted by contempt.  
Greg raised both his hands, to declare his innocence.  
\- Mrs Hudson, I...- he started to say, giving a glance beyond the woman and looking for John’s support. Before Greg was able to say another word, Mrs Hudson’s bag hit his hands. And again, this time his elbow.  
\- Scoundrel, scoundrel, arrest him in the middle of the night! In _my_ house! Under _my_ roof!  
Lestrade tried to withdraw, hoping to flee from the incredible fury of the woman.  
Despite her being an old widow, Mrs Hudson showed a miraculous energy: the DI had to raise his arms to protect his face from the blows. The bag – _a damned bag filled with stones for sure!_ – hit his stomach. Greg let out a grunt and, while he was trying to slip away, his leg banged into one of the gravestones, knocking him off balance.  
He would have probably fallen if John Watson had not grabbed him by the arm, helping him to stand up.  
\- Enough, Mrs Hudson – Watson imposed, putting his arm around her shoulders. – It’s not his fault.  
Lestrade gave him a thank you gesture, even if John’s hollow voice made a really unconvincing appeal in his defence. Greg understood that John Watson, although not openly belligerent as Mrs. Hudson, had not forgotten the arrest.  
 _Don’t try to interfere or I shall arrest you too._  
The words, the glances they had shared that night; Lestrade interposing between John and Sherlock, Sherlock handcuffed, Lestrade who had to threaten John between his teeth; eventually, while he was leaving the flat, Donovan’s voice twisting the knife in the wound.  
It was surprising John himself didn’t throw him to the ground.  
Or maybe not so surprising, Watson being Watson: maybe he was bearing a grudge against him, but he was able to accept the idea that human beings make mistakes.  
Lestrade sighed, put in order his coat and thought better to let Watson handling Mrs Hudson. The woman agreed to precede him to the car, but she launched suspicious glances to the DI. Like he was going to arrest also _poor and dear John_.  
When Mrs Hudson was no more within earshot, there was a dead silence. Uncomfortable, Lestrade missed Mrs Hudson’s little bag. He had spent the last two days thinking properly about his chances, weighing his cards and trying to understand if he had better to leave the game.  
But, even if he was suspended and _encouraged_ – as a Chief Superintendent can encourage one of his subordinates – to stay far away from in anything even vaguely related to Sherlock Holmes...he _had to_.  
Maybe he was not as much brilliant as Sherlock had been.  
Maybe he had not Watson’s heart. Or Mycroft’s authority.  
But he was an _honest_ man. He was trying to be.  
So he would have tried by every possible means to get the truth about...  
\- Sherlock.  
Lestrade started. John’s voice had interrupted the trail of his thoughts.  
He nodded and he was going to admit to Watson how much he needed his help to find out what really happened on St. Bart’s rooftop. And how much he needed a little of his _faith_ , while the world was trying to repudiate Sherlock Holmes.  
But John anticipated him and, as with Mycroft, Lestrade didn’t see the blow coming.  
\- _Sherlock was a fake._


	2. Galahad's Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and John join forces to investigate on Sherlock's death.

Gregory Lestrade was forty-eight.  
He knew he should have taken better care of himself. Too many nights spent at his desk, trying to figure out some brutal homicide. Too many cool take-away meals hastily eaten. Few holidays: he had been foolishly _happy_ to interrupt the last one when Mycroft had asked him to keep a close eye on Sherlock and John in Dartmoor. Last time he had chased a suspect, he had found himself breathless, his legs shaking. He did not remember the last movie he had been able to see to its end without falling asleep.  
And things had gotten worse since he had broken up with Linda. At least, she had kept him in line, she had taken care of him. Maybe not in the right way, maybe not enough. Maybe _too much_ , and this had consumed Linda’s love for him, till there was nothing but a dull resentment and a bed too big for him alone.  
But this was the first time Lestrade felt _old_.   
 _Sherlock was a fake_.  
His brain pushed the words away and then absorbed them again, until Greg wanted to leave Watson behind, Watson and the graveyard and all the bloody Holmes walking on this Earth. _Sherlock was a fake_.  
He was old, an old and dull cop who had already spent, or wasted, his best years on duty. He had no more crusades to join, no duel to fight.  
An old king, whose crown is heavier than ever before.  
 _Sherlock was a fake_.  
But, maybe because he was an old cop, Lestrade sensed that something was not what it should have been. _Intuition_. He was not Sherlock and he was not able to look at Watson and deduce what he had eaten for breakfast, but he was quite sure John Watson was lying. After all, it was the same tone he had used to defend him from Mrs Hudson.  
\- No.  
\- No? – repeated John.   
\- You don’t believe what you’re saying.  
John frowned.  
\- You’re right – he admitted.  
The lack of resistance caught Lestrade off guard.  
\- So...why? Is it a kind of childish revenge for the arrest?  
John’s eyes looked darker.  
\- No. It’s what I was asked to do.  
\- _Asked_? – Greg said, confused. – Who asked?  
Watson made a strange sound, like a shaky laugh.  
\- Sherlock Holmes. Who else?  
The DI took a deep breath, like someone who’s going to dive in deep water.  
\- When?  
\- During the phone call we had before he launched himself from St. Bart’s – Watson seemed to think for a moment, then, with a nervous gesture, he added: - I saw him falling.  
\- I didn’t know – Lestrade murmured, taken aback.  
\- No? – for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, a sparkle of interest burnt on John’s face. – I believed you had read the reports.  
\- I’m suspended.  
\- Because you informed us about the arrest? – asked Watson.  
\- No, they haven’t found it out. Not yet. It looks like punching a subordinate is untolerated.  
\- Who?  
\- Anderson.  
Suddenly, they found themselves smiling – Watson nearly sneering.  
\- Sherlock would have appreciated – he commented.  
Lestrade saw the break in John’s reserve and understood he had to make the most out of it.  
\- Listen, there’re things of his last days that aren’t clear enough. Questions which the Yard is not going to ask, but I need the answers.    
Watson did not speak. He was staring at an old gravestone, the moss blooming from its cracks.  
\- John – insisted the DI, fearing to lose him again behind the fog Sherlock’s death had thrown on them all. – I need your help. I cannot imagine anyone knowing more than you about what happened.  
\- What if there was nothing more than his confession?  
\- Well, I’ll listen to it, word after word.  
Watson looked at him with great attention, but eventually he nodded.  
\- Fine. Not here and not now, obviously. I’ll call you.    
They shook hands and they walked side to side on the hill scattered with gravestones. Then Watson turned towards the churchyard, where Mrs Hudson was talking with the parson. Greg was on the point of leaving him behind, but he thought better of it.   
\- John!  
\- Yes?  
\- If you don’t believe Sherlock was a fake, why did you tell me?  
\- Haven’t I already answered? _He_ asked for this.  
\- Yes, but...  
\- And I trust him to the point of doing _exactly_ what he asked me to do.

***

Greg passed a couple of fingers in his shirt collar, slightly loosening the annoying tie. The fire-red wrapping paper crackled against his chest when he gripped the flowers as a shield: he was under the impression that the café owner was spying on him.    
Lestrade had not expected to end up with such a big bunch of flowers. How many years had passed since the last time he had bought flowers for a woman? And flower-sellers had become smarter – and greedier – in the meantime. Now he felt like a boy at his first date, without knowing what was waiting him behind the door.  
He knocked a couple of times. He took a step back and the door was open.  
\- I was waiting for you, Detective Inspector.  
Mrs Hudson, in a sober black dress, invited him in.  
He looked at the old-fashioned pattern of the stained glass of the window; he rediscovered the bamboo print of the wallpaper and the dusty paleness of the carpet on the landing.  
Greg was astounded by the feeling of intimacy coming from the place.  
Going up the stairs three steps at time or roaming like a bear in a cage under John’s sympathetic gaze, waiting to understand Sherlock’s absurd and awfully correct theories, Lestrade had become an inhabitant of 221B of Baker Street.  
A marginal one, and occasional, but devoted nonetheless.       
\- Thank you for inviting me in, Mrs Hudson – he murmured, quietly, giving her the flowers.  
In the bizarre mood raised by his return in those rooms, even the flowers looked not so much out of place. Mrs Hudson accepted them with a coquettish smile.  
The DI was forgiven: John had put in a good word for him and announced his arrive, but the flowers – a wise advice from the very same Dr Watson – were a success.  
\- Would you like a cup of tea, Detective Inspector? – the woman offered, with a kindness which suggested Greg to accept.  
\- Maybe later, thank you – he answered, hiding his impatience. But Mrs Hudson did not look like she intended to leave him alone. – I think you should put the flowers in a vase – he mumbled.  
Although very curious, she did not want to take the risk to ruin those wonderful flowers so soon. The flower-seller bill immediately looked fair when the woman left the flat.  
Greg closed the door after her, took off his coat and laid it on a chair. He realized he was not making a sound, _like a thief_. The yellow smile on the wallpaper seemed to laugh at him.  
In truth, Lestrade had willingly accepted to take the burden to search the 221B. It was obvious: there was no need for John to express in words his resistance. But three days from the funeral were not enough even for him: he sensed Sherlock’s ghost behind every step he took in those rooms.  
He shook his head and drew a pair of latex gloves from the back pocket of his trousers. He started to move his hands on the books, examining them one after one, according to the boring method he had adopted in the last twenty years.  
He wasn’t exactly sure about what he was looking for: a _key code_ could have been a sequence of numbers scribbled on a piece of paper, a compact disc confused among other, or a coded message buried under those walls.  
But he and John had agreed about this: how much hard the quest, the search for the key code was their main trail. According to Watson’s account, the key code was to be held responsible for the clamorous breaking in the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison. Moriarty had hidden the key code at the 221B, to point the attention of the whole criminal world on Sherlock Holmes.  
From Lestrade’s point of view, _fact_ was that the man Sherlock Holmes had officially recognized as Jim Moriarty and against whom he had given testimony in the court law was the same man he had arrested in the Tower of London, in the golden, diamond-sparkling halo of the Crown Jewels. The rest was...nothing. Yet.     
About the meeting with Moriarty in the 221B, there was nothing but Sherlock’s word to Watson. Moriarty’s plan had been confirmed by the confession of a killer – _a killed killer_. And still what the killer had believed was not proper evidence: the whole criminal world could have been fooled.  
On the other hand, there was Kitty Riley’s scoop on Richard Brook.  
Greg was upset by it: it seemed Richard Brook’s words could reveal more than he had ever been able to understand about Sherlock Holmes. He was hurt by the idea that what made realistic the image drawn by Richard Brook was its _atrocity_.  
And yet there was John’s belief: Moriarty was real and Sherlock Holmes had been framed up. Greg had decided to share that belief, just for the moment: it was fair trade for John’s full cooperation and following Sherlock’s trail was easier than doubting every one of his steps.  
The key code could be still there. Sherlock had had no occasions to retrieve it. The Yard had no suspicions about it and they had not searched the flat - they had chosen _immobility_ : declarations reduced to the minimum and damage control, the failure procedure Lestrade knew too well.  
But had the key code ever been in the flat? What if one of the killers had been able to find it?  
\- Detective Inspector, there is your tea!  
Greg was examining the window frame and he banged his forehead against the glass. He turned around and hid his hands behind his back. Luckily, Mrs Hudson was busy arranging the teapot and a pair of cups on the small round table, so she did not notice anything.     
\- You should have not troubled yourself, Mrs Hudson – said Greg, disguising his disappointment for the interruption. He took a seat on the armchair which was Sherlock’s.  
For a moment, the woman seemed unease in the 221B without Sherlock – the bored, irritating, dangerous and brilliant Sherlock who had risked blowing the flat at least ten time during the last year. Mrs Hudson avoided the awkwardness according to the laws of her sex: _speaking_. She gave way to mixed memories from her younger days and Sherlock, complaining about Mr Chatterjee of the Speedy’s Cafe and the maintenance works requested by the house.  
\- And there was that maintenance man...such a big and scary boy, but such a sweetheart! He was here for an electric failure, but he immediately volunteered to help me with a couple of things a widow like me can’t provide herself...- Mrs Hudson was blabbing.  
\- Very interesting – the DI murmured, bringing the cup of tea to his lips and wondering how he could check the other parts of the house. After all, 221C had already come as a surprise.  
\- How careful he was! I was in very good hands...I phoned his company to have him here again to fix up some others silly things, but, _how strange!_ , they said me they had no one sent to me that day, suggesting my memory was unreliable. I’m not likely to forget _when_ it happened! The very same day Sherlock...- she stopped, confused.  
Greg put the empty cup on the table and tried to think about comforting words for Mrs Hudson. But she preceded him.  
\- Were you able to find John’s stuff, DI? – she asked, looking around. Lestrade blushed.  
\- Yes, I, mh...  
\- Books, I suppose?  
\- Yeah, books and something else...- he muttered, calling himself idiot.  
He had to take care of his _undercover_. They had made up a story about Gregory picking up Watson’s things from the 221B to shelter Mrs Hudson from harm. But he was just messing around and Mrs Hudson eyes were glaring with reproach.   
\- Aren’t you thinking of carrying the books in your arms, are you? You need a basket or a box.  
\- Sure, sure...I’m going to pack them...  
\- Oh, take your time, Detective Inspector! – she interrupted him, once again, sweet and bossy. – It must be strange for you too, to be here now, without my boys...  
Lestrade nodded, knowing how little Mrs Hudson care about his involvement in the conversation and he just hoped that John Watson had a better chance.

***

On the other side of London, John Watson had a date with a woman too.  
Unlike Lestrade he did not bring flowers. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.  
It took some time, but eventually Kitty Riley appeared at the door. She was dressed in an elegant and sober black suit, her eyes made larger with make-up and a rapacious smile on her red-painted mouth.   
\- Dr Watson – she welcomed him, her voice lazy on vowels and sharper on consonants. – You are beyond all my expectations.  
\- We should enter, shouldn’t we? – he murmured, uneasy.  
He knew Kitty was drunk with self-satisfaction: Sherlock Holmes’s loyal friend was _at her door_. She could have denounced how Watson had been involved in a break-in into her house in the night preceding Sherlock’s suicide. But Kitty was not looking for revenge: she had better plans.  
\- You know the way – she suggested, amused.       
Watson noticed how bleak Kitty’s house was. It was not simply ugly, old-fashioned or shabby. It was rather a feeling about not being its inhabitants hoped for. The paintings, for example: they should have suggested some sort of artistic inclination, but they were too much and too different one from another, chosen without heart or eyes, nailed to the wall like butterflies in an entomologist’s collection.  
Not the lampshades decorated with roses nor the crystal chandelier were able to make you forget the second-rate curtains or the worn look of the carpet. The house was impersonal, artificial, _false_ to the last bit. And Kitty Riley was sitting there, sparkling with smugness.  
\- I’m really, really happy you decided to call me, Dr Watson – she said when John was sit on the couch. That night he had found the couch too little, now it was too broad. – After our unpleasant first meeting, I confess I doubted your wisdom. But here we are...  
 _Here we are_ , repeated John in his mind.  
 _Me and the woman who collaborates to the public disgrace of Sherlock Holmes.  
_ He tried to remember what he had agreed with Greg, during an almost sleepless night. He kept his head down, rubbing one hand against another. He glanced at Kitty.  
There was something different about her – _the success_ , obviously.  She had put away the jeans and the cheap jewellery for a well-cut dress. The great stir caused by her scoop had probably gained her a promotion, but also the respect and the envy of her kind. Now she was exactly what the public wanted - sober, gracious but professional: a voice to trust.  
\- How I said during our phone call, I believe I owe you my... _apologies_.  
\- Oh, yes...- she breathed, her voice purring.  
\- I admit my judgment was...scarcely reliable, that night.  
\- It’s natural, Dr Watson, natural! – Kitty encouraged him. – You had just seen your dearest Sherlock Holmes accused of such horrible crimes and you were obviously involved in a big, big misunderstanding with Scotland Yard. For you, an honest citizen and a brave soldier, it must have been difficult to survive the humiliation of an arrest. You didn’t deserve this _at all_ and it will be very plain in my article.    
John was quite sure the Chief Superintendent’s broken nose was not going to agree with Kitty’s point of view.  
\- I believe...I believe Scotland Yard was simply performing its duty – he replied and maybe he was not able to hidden all of the revulsion in his voice.  
He knew exactly what Kitty Riley was aiming at. It was the _bait_ he and Gregory had chosen.  
 _Let her think you’ll give her a confession about your relation to Sherlock_.  
In Kitty Riley’s world everyone was for sale and everyone was looking for celebrity: she was trying to gain John’s favour offering him a mouthful at her table: a table where reality could be changed, shaped, made-to-measure until Watson was no one but the victim of Sherlock _and_ Scotland Yard.   
\- I don’t think you can accuse Scotland Yard to live up to the citizens’ expectations – she insisted with a knowing smile. – But surely you are better informed than me about this: is it true that the Yard was used to call Sherlock Holmes at any time? I think the right man to talk to is...- she paused, her tongue resting for a moment on her lips, while she was trying to remember or pretending to - ... _Detective Inspector Lestrade_ , right? Unfortunately I have found rather difficult to get hold of him.  
 _Obviously_ , considering that Greg had taken care to slip from her grasp.  
\- I suppose you know him and you could put in a good word for me...  
\- I’m here to talk about Sherlock.  
Kitty blinked at being interrupted. For a moment a harsher expression appeared on her pretty face, but eventually she smiled. DI Lestrade could have been a tasty snack, but nothing could ever compare first-hand information about Holmes.  
\- Sure, sure...let’s talk about Sherlock Holmes.    
\- I want... _I must_ understand what happened. It’s still difficult for me to believe Richard Brook’s account.  
\- I understand, Dr Watson. After all, you _had been living_ with Holmes. You had been the first witness of his fraud...I noticed how much energy you put against poor Richard that night.   
\- _Poor Richard_ – Watson repeated, with a slight tremble. – I suppose I owe him my apologies.  
\- This is really, really noble from you – commented Kitty, happily.   
\- Can you really help me to get hold of him, Miss Riley?  
Her boldness softened. She bit her lower lip and, for the first time, she took her eyes off from John’s.  
\- Is it your _price_ , Dr Watson? – she asked.  
They meet each other’s gaze. There was no disappointment in Kitty’s eyes. She looked, on the contrary, relieved to know the price for Watson’s confession.  
Reality was not important to her: she was more interested about what can sold. Surely many would have fallen for Jim Moriarty’s skills. Even Sherlock Holmes had been fooled, wasn’t he? _Jim from the hospital_. But it was hardly the point how much Brook’s words were credible – _thank to Mycroft_ , John reminded himself in a fit of rage. The point was that Kitty Riley had been _exactly_ what needed. And John was unable to forgive her for what she was.   
\- Take me to Richard Brook and I’ll answer every questions of yours about Sherlock Holmes.  
\- How can I be sure? You must give me something...- she started to bargain.  
John wanted Moriarty. But he also knew Kitty’s greedy touch on his memories of Sherlock was going to break his heart. Greg had warned him against people like her. As Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, he had been dealing with journalist for years and he knew how to resist their temptations. _She’ll be ready to give you anything. Also what she has not.  
_ They had no reason to be sure Miss Riley was still in touch with Jim Moriarty. _No one ever gets to me_ , and it was a philosophy that Moriarty had broken only for the pleasure to play with Sherlock Holmes.  
Her uneasiness on the subject had not gone unnoticed. Brook had been a difficult prey to manage. There had not been a debate about Kitty’s scoop, because of Sherlock’s death, but there was a weakness...  
\- Not until I’ll meet Mr Brook.  
\- _Richard_ doesn’t wish to be more exposed by this story. Think what you want, but the poor man has not too much to earn by this scandal. And I’m sure Holmes’s death has only shaken his nerves.  
Sherlock would have been able to imagine exactly the last events in the house, but Watson saw nothing but the unpleasant and dull surface of Kitty Riley’s life, because he was not able to read a whole story between a mud trace and a perfume trail.  
He was not Sherlock Holmes and he had to use his own weapons.  
\- Miss Riley, if you could give me information about Richard Brook, I’d assure you the full exclusive about my relationship with Sherlock Holmes. About its... _nature_.  
Kitty blinked. For a moment she looked like she had not understood, then she smiled wildly.  
 _You must have heard her, John. Hunting the most itchy details in the court’s toilets.  
Which details?  
Relationship.  
Relationship?  
Yours.  
Mine?  
With me. Platonic nonsense. Rubbish.  
Ah.  
_ \- So the rumours, the whispers...there’s really something to write about, Dr Watson – murmured Kitty. Sherlock Holmes’s story was already pure gold: it had death, deception, crimes and victims. But Kitty missed an ingredient: _sex_.  
Her heart was swollen with desire.  
\- Talk to me about this, _John_ – she whispered, adopting his name to force him to intimacy. She slipped on the armchair, leaning like a vulture from a branch. – Free yourself from this burden. You were used, hurt, abandoned. Talk, and you are going to feel better.  
John felt sick.  
\- I want Richard Brook.  
\- You’ll have him.  
\- I want evidence you’re really in touch with him.  
Kitty Riley rose from the armchair. She moved her hands on her suit, smoothing the dark cloth. Her whole little body quivered with ill-repressed irritation.  
\- I can arrange a meeting between you and Richard whenever I want to.  
John’s heart skipped a beat: now he knew Kitty Riley had no way to get him to Moriarty. She was so desperate at the idea to have nothing to buy his words with that she was lying to plainly.  
\- You have never seen Moriarty after that night – John accused her, rising.  
Kitty’s eyes widened and Watson understood he had also made a mistake.  
\- _Moriarty? Moriarty again?_ Dr Watson, you still believe in Holmes!  
Maybe Kitty Riley was not that cultivated. Maybe her pen, and her morality, were not worthy. But she was not a fool, not to the point to be played by a man clearly devoured by his loyalty to a ghost.  
– He disappeared, didn’t he? After that night, after that _wretched play_ , Richard Brook vanished in thin air.  
\- How can you blame him? He doesn’t want to be at the mercy of fanatics like you, Dr Watson.  
\- Bullshit – he replied in a grimace.  
Kitty’s cheeks reddened and she backed out until her back hit the mantelpiece, despite the fact that John was standing still.  
\- Richard Brook disappeared and you know it, Kitty. You know it’s something that could ruin his credibility. Oh, you tried to find him...for another interview, maybe a TV appearance. But he’s not there, is he?  
\- I have got evidence – she defended herself, flatly.  
\- There will be doubts about the credibility of your vanished source, Kitty Riley. Do you know what I have learnt about Sherlock Holmes’s success? It creates envy and envy creates enemies – he said, slowly now, like he was talking to a child or to a difficult patient. – There must be someone, out there, who is waiting for the chance to stand in your way, Kitty. _I’ll find him_. And I’ll use him against you.  
\- If you believe you’ll be able to clear your loved one’s name, you’re wrong. _It’s too late.  
_ Kitty’s words took his breath away – he knew, after all, she was right. _It’s too late_.  
He charged, like the wounded bull charges in the arena.  
\- It’s not too late for you, Kitty. There’s still time for you to fail. _What happened to Richard Brook, Kitty Riley?_ You don’t want this question to be asked on the newspapers, because it’s the only one you don’t have an answer for.

Few minutes later, John left Kitty Riley’s house. He crossed the street for the opposite footstep. A cab passed. Watson kept walking till the next block. Then he permitted his legs to betray him. He sit on the edge of the footstep, careless of the curious and suspicious glances he gained. He took his head in his hands.

***

\- She could have called the police – said Greg, when they were in his kitchen that very evening.  
John took a long sip from his cup, then he put it down.  
\- This coffee is _disgusting_ , Greg.  
Lestrade looked embarrassed. He leaned his back against the kitchen counter, hands in pockets.  
\- I know. Linda took away the coffee machine – he murmured, with that confused look he always assumed when talking about his ex-wife. John drummed his fingers on the cup.  
\- So...it’s over? – he asked.  
Greg stood still for a moment, frozen in place, then slowly nodded.  
\- Yes. I suppose I believe it now. It’s not easy going back to live alone. I’m not a boy anymore. There’s no more excitement about novelties, there’s no surprising meeting to daydream about. Only disgusting instant coffee.  
\- I can suggest you a better brand – offered Watson, with a sympathetic glance.  
\- I will owe you my life – Greg smiled, taking a seat. – So you’re quite sure Kitty Riley has nothing in her sleeve about Richard Brook?  
\- Yes, I am – answered John, after a moment. – From her point of view, there is no reason to protect Richard. He told her everything about Sherlock, she has her scoop. Nothing threatens Richard Brook. If Kitty could have used him as bargain chip to get my story...  
\- What if she was not tempted enough?  
\- I made her an offer she could have never refused: my relationship with Sherlock.  
Lestrade’s gaze became out of focus, for a moment. Then he started, slightly.  
\- _Ah_.  
He had no need of Sherlock’s power of observation to acknowledge the bond between Sherlock and Watson. On the other side, he was under the impression that the consulting detective was the most unaware of them all - the usual emotional ineptitude of Sherlock.  
The real nature of their link, however, stood unfathomable.  
And, in Lestrade’s opinion, it was something between John and a ghost. Nothing he wanted to face, let alone when he was not able to understand who Sherlock Holmes had been. What he exactly knew was John Watson’s loyalty towards Sherlock. And it was something he did not find unpleasant to live with: maybe Watson was wrong about Sherlock, but his behaviour was honourable and Greg thought highly of it.  
\- Well, however you’re not back empty-handed – he continued, opening again the small agenda with the nibbled and scratched cover.      
\- A bunch of notes on subjects we already know: _Richard Brook’s lies.  
_ \- You must admit they’re rather...realistic – commented Lestrade. He had spoken with kindness, but Watson tensed.  
\- They are. In fact, I could tell you they’re the simple truth for the most part.  
Greg raised his eyes from the pages filled by Kitty’s tiny calligraphy. He stared at John, but he had not time to go deeper.  
\- Besides Kitty’s note on Richard Brook’s confession, the agenda contains the dates of their meetings and the number she used to keep in touch with him.  
\- I’m surprised she let you have her agenda.  
\- Well, she had already squeezed out all she could. She’s unable to contact Brook and maybe she hopes I’ll be luckier...however she has nothing to lose letting me her notes. I think she’s really scared by the possibility of me talking to another newspaper...  
\- She would suffer a real comedown if she had to admit she isn’t closer to Richard Brook than anyone – the DI admitted, brushing his fingers on the phone number noted on the first page. – I can have it checked. After all, I have still some friends at Scotland Yard.  
\- I don’t think Moriarty could have left such evidence behind him...- muttered John.  
\- Yet there’s no harm in trying. But there’s something I’m not sure about...  
\- What?  
Lestrade run his hand through his grey hair and made a face. He closed the agenda.  
\- Why did Richard Brook disappear? – he asked John.  
\- Kitty thinks...  
\- I’m not interested in Miss Riley’s explanation. From Jim Moriarty’s point of view, why had Richard Brook to vanish so soon? Sherlock is dead, his name cursed: it is exactly the reality which, according to Holmes, Moriarty was trying to shape. _His victory_.  
\- Don’t forget he’s also a criminal. A criminal who decided to eliminate Sherlock because he had got in his way.  
\- Fine, maybe his dirty business needed him in the shadows. But _so soon_? After all, staying in touch with Kitty shouldn’t be so difficult. This absence is much more suspicious than a presence: it catches the attention.  
\- It’s weird – Watson admitted. – If Sherlock was alive, he would be surely accused for Brook’s disappearance. But _now_...no, it makes not sense at all.  
\- He could have enjoyed more of Richard Brook’s fame. I was under the impression he’s fairly committed to the melodrama – Greg suggested.  
\- Is he planning something? Is he just hidden somewhere?  
\- _From us_? – Lestrade’s voice was filled with sarcasm. – Maybe from the secret service.  
\- Maybe...maybe from the same killers of Baker Street.  
\- Why?  
\- The key code. Moriarty had put it on sale and linked it to Sherlock’s name. Now he’s dead. Do you really believe this is enough to stop the criminal world from craving the key code?  
\- No. And this is the reason why I think it has been already retrieved from 221B.  
\- Possible. But it could have never been there or Moriarty could have sold it...- noticed Watson, nodding. – However, the point is that nothing happened.  
\- No one using the key code – concluded Lestrade.  
\- There’s the possibility that Moriarty still has the key code and no intention to sell it...maybe it was just a bait to draw the sharks closer to Sherlock. Perhaps he’s hiding from the would-be buyers.  
\- So, we get close to the would-be buyers and we find Moriarty.  
John smiled, shyly, but Lestrade slam his fist on the table.  
\- Damn, yes. These killers settled in Baker Street...did Mycroft Holmes inform you about them, didn’t he? We must talk to him.  
John Watson’s gaze went darker. He didn’t answer, but Gregory was able to understand how the idea of involving Sherlock’s big brother was troubling him.  
\- Listen, John. I’m not so fond of having a chat with him...but I’m going to talk to him. He came to me, after the funeral, and he suggested me to...keep him informed. I suppose it’s time to make the call.                  
\- I’d prefer not being in the same room with Mycroft Holmes.  
\- It’s fine, I’ll do it... Just try to find out what you can from this agenda and Baker Street. Talking about the child, the ambassador’s daughter...- Lestrade mentioned, - ...we should try to understand why she reacted so badly, but the parents are not going to let me or you near her.  
\- We cannot help about this – John said, getting ready to leave. – Thanks for the dinner.  
\- Thank the Chinese take-away at the corner of the street – replied Lestrade, smoothly.  
\- You should try a real dinner, Greg – Watson admonished him. – Take it as a medical advice. And...I think you should know one thing before your meeting with Mycroft Holmes.  
Lestrade turned attentive, folding his arms and frowning.  
\- Sherlock Holmes’s portrait as depicted by Richard Brook is so realistic because Mycroft gave him all the information he had wished for about Sherlock’s past and present.  
  
Thus Gregory Lestrade learnt that in this story the villain had counted on the best help ever. A _traitor_ ’s help.


	3. The Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade meet at the Diogenes Club.

What Mycroft Holmes loved about Diogenes Club was the _silence_.  
Silence assured a safe cohabitation among his regulars. And he could lightly touch the thread of his thoughts, thin and translucent like a spider web.  
He emptied the glass, slowly. He put it back on the tray and slid his fingers under the jacket, to draw the pocket watch. Past five. _He’s late_. Mycroft frowned: he loved punctuality.  
His annoyance was sharpened by the consciousness of his own impatience.  
He was tempted by drinking again, but he thought better. It was not his plan to attend the meeting less than perfectly clear-headed. He turned to the door, which opened – perfect timing.  
Gregory Lestrade almost stumbled on the threshold, freeing himself, rather briskly, from the grip of two waiters who had taken him to the room. He stood up, but he blushed when he realized how clumsy he should have appeared, in a place where everything, and everyone, seemed to possess a natural elegance. Then shame became irritation, and pride stroke back.  
Mycroft saw all the nuances of Lestrade’s feelings and was amused by them. But he offered nothing but an annoyed expression to Lestrade’s eyes.              
"I’m rather surprised Dr Watson did not inform you about the behaviour which is expected from those who venture here, Detective Inspector Lestrade" he noticed, watching Greg moving his first steps into the room. "I suppose John has far more pressing matters to distract him, like your _little private investigation_."  
" _Go to hell_ , Mr Holmes."  
It happened so fast that Mycroft froze, like he had been slapped.  
As for Greg, almost unnerved by what he had just said, sit down.  
Mycroft was surprised. Much more than he gave away. He was used to consider Lestrade a kind man, maybe not too refined, but not at all vulgar and little inclined to verbal or physical abuse.  
 _Not harmless, but vulnerable._  
He had never doubted there were stronger and harsher fibres in Lestrade, but what had surprised him was how quickly and easily they had come to surface, after few, few words. Oh, he had consciously provoked him, but the outcome exceeded the taunt. Then, in the blink of an eye, Mycroft understood. He read it in Lestrade’s dark gaze, fixed upon him like he was about to involve him in a fight.  
"Oh. Sure," he murmured, while his lips were cutting a smile which left out the eyes. "Watson told you _everything_. Much more important than the rules of this club"  
"And you had the damned nerves to reproach me for the arrest," Gregory accused, with such a low voice that Holmes understood how much he wished to scream all his disdain. "It’s funny: maybe he could have been safer in one of our cells than out there, while the newspapers were ready to smash him to pieces thank to what _you_ had told Jim Moriarty."  
Mycroft felt his inclination for Lestrade closing his stomach.  
The Detective Inspector looked out of place, there at the Diogenes. On his cheeks there was the shadow of a two-days beard, his clothes were clean but modest, his face – _handsome_ , but coarse – talked about a childhood in some Somerset village, a reckless youth, a precocious marriage sunk in an exhausting job...    
On the other side, there _he_ was, with his degrees and tailor-made suits. With his gentlemanlike ugliness, the pale complexion and a whole world of privileges inscribed in his voice, his manners, his ideas. He knew he brought along the appeal of places where everything is exclusive, every name unforgettable, every matter personal – at the same time he had the strength of belonging to a caste.  
Who was the most deserving between him and Lestrade? Who deserved to be loved and valued? He knew the answer.  
"When I remembered you your attempt to arrest Sherlock, Detective Inspector, I was suggesting that we all make mistakes. We do not understand the consequences of our choices: that night, how much could you possibly know about what the future had in store for Sherlock? When I granted Jim Moriarty the knowledge of my brother’s past, I did not suspect how broad and deep my mistake was."  
Lestrade, after a moment of uncertainty, shook his head.  
"No, there’s nothing in common between you and me, Mr Holmes."  
Mycroft slightly bowed, withdrawing himself from the halo of the nearest lamp.  
"I was involved in the events which brought to Sherlock’s attempted arrest. If this had quickened or signed his...end, my part had been a _sad one_ , accomplished against my own wishes" continued Lestrade, "but I’m a cop and I have duties."  
"Do you believe it was not in the fulfilment of _my_ duties I had Jim Moriarty interrogated?" the other man asked, slightly irritated.  
"I attempted to arrest a _maybe_ innocent man. You sacrificed your brother’s secrets to his mortal enemy. Flesh of your flesh."  
"Oh, here we are...the old story of Cain and Abel," Mycroft replied, his head against the back of the armchair. Then, almost unconsciously, his lips moved again, betraying the shadow on his heart. " _I’m sorry_ "  
Lestrade did not speak. In the silence, Mycroft was choked by an unusual urgency.  
"Whatever you’re thinking about me, believe this: I am sorry. Believe me, _please_."  
Mycroft saw the signs of his own defeat in Lestrade’s eyes. He had spoken in a voice he did not know to possess, a pleading tone full of expectations.  
It was his turn to be overwhelmed by shame and by the impulse to slap Lestrade with the back of his hand, merely because he had heard his words.    
He was about to declare their meeting done. But he stood still, because Gregory Lestrade was watching him, stunned and... _curious_. Mycroft was tempted to laugh. Oh, they were _so different_ , he and Lestrade.  
Lestrade’s honesty and integrity were deceiving. You were bound to believe him a simple man, with dull moral values and no depth at all. But you had only to slightly scratch the surface of Scotland Yard to discover that the man was more complex, more elusive. _Not what he expected.  
_ On the contrary, he had always been considered a complex man. A man whose words were always wrapped up in other words, someone moving through life as the bishop on the chessboard: _obliquely_. But sometimes his desires were so simple and direct to disarm him.     
Now even Gregory could see it: how simply he, Mycroft Holmes, was vulnerable to his opinion.  
"If Jim Moriarty had to resort to you to gain information, it’s clear he has never been Sherlock’s creature."  
Lestrade’s words were not a proper answer, but Mycroft understood that hostility had ceased – at least for the moment.  
"Obviously. No actor, no matter how skilled and well paid, could ever endured to... _entertain_ a conversation about the safety of the United Kingdom," he replied, smoothly.  
The DI didn’t inquire about the possibilities of entertainment.  
"So the government, or the secret service, or whatever you represent...they know perfectly well that Sherlock Holmes is innocent and Brook is a lie?"  
 _"Obviously_ " Mycroft repeated and he raised a hand. "But there is not going to be any official statement. It is not the kind of subject we let out on the newspapers."  
"Sherlock’s name is at stake!" Lestrade protested.  
"What is one man’s name before the system which grants a peaceful sleep for millions of people? Creatures of the darkness like Jim Moriarty should be locked up in the fairy tales."  
 _"It’s not fair,_ " Greg murmured, sullen. "You have no idea where Moriarty is, am I right?"  
"You should have already understood that Jim Moriarty is a man who seldom permits to be caught. And when this happens, it is probable he has something to gain from his seizure. His trap is already closed on Sherlock and no one will get to him."  
The delusion on Lestrade’s face was so sharp that Mycroft rose and headed for the drink tray. He took a glass and half-filled it with scotch.  
"No ice, please," he heard him suggesting, behind his back.  
" _I know,_ " he replied with a quick smile that the DI could not see.  
When he gave the glass to Lestrade, the man shot him a side-glance.  
"I don’t understand why John waited so long to tell me about you and Moriarty. He would have spared me many doubts about Sherlock," he confessed, before taking a sip.  
"Maybe he wanted to be sure about your will, Detective Inspector. But I believe John Watson, being a gentleman, did not wish to reveal another man’s secret."  
"I thought discovering Sherlock’s innocence would have made me feel better" Greg murmured, emptying his glass  
"But?" asked Mycroft, with unusual delicacy.  
"Now I know how heavy is the defeat. And I don’t feel better at all."  
Gregory Lestrade leaned his head on his left hand, while the other hand made the glass swinging.  
"We are often blinded by the idea that our flaws, our faults make people around us suffer. On the contrary, it’s our best side which condemn them. Sherlock had never been able to cause such pain as he does being an innocent man."  
Mycroft’s voice was calm, no trace of tenderness nor resentment. If he was among those whose heart was sorrow-bitten, it was not seeping through his words.  
Greg trembled.  
"Yet here you are," Holmes continued. "You wanted to meet me to express your disdain for the part I had played, but I am inclined to believe you, like John Watson, don’t think Sherlock’s innocence as the end of this story."  
"I’m a _detective_ : an investigation is closed only when the guilty one is under arrest."  
"Justice has so many shades, Detective Inspector Lestrade."  
"I thought you approve the idea to find out what really happened on St. Bart’s rooftop."  
Mycroft did not answer immediately. He caressed his chin.  
"You were at the 221B, Baker Street, from four to seven in the afternoon. I guess you were searching for the key code. Doctor Watson, on the other side, paid a call to Miss Riley, the woman behind the scoop on Richard Brook. It was at five o’clock in the afternoon and, after that, John was your guest for dinner. Chinese food, ordered from the restaurant at the corner of the street, like most of your meals."  
Lestrade blinked.  
"Are you making a show of your power, Mr Holmes?"  
"I’m making a show of my interest" Mycroft corrected him.  
Lestrade moved from bewilderment to annoyance.  
"If you are spying us I don’t understand why asking me to keep you informed."  
"I’m going to overlook about the fact _you_ asked me for a meeting this time," he began, "and I hold back the temptation to convince you that the pleasure of talking with you is enough...actually, although I know about every moves of yours, every meetings and calls, there’s no bug or spy able to reveal me the most important thing."  
"That is...?"  
"Your opinion."  
Mycroft savoured the exact moment when his words reached Lestrade. And the way the blood reddened his cheeks. _So modest_.  
"I am sure you had time to think about what you found out so far," he said, eventually, relieving the DI from the uneasiness. "I would like to know which conclusion have you reached."  
"Yeah, I, well..." Gregory ruffled his hair and cleared his throat. "There are at least three blind spots I want to think about. The first one is the reason why the ambassador’s daughter reacted so badly seeing Sherlock."  
"But this cannot bring us closer to Moriarty."  
"Yeah, and they’re not going to let us talk to the child. The second one is Sherlock’s very death: I don’t dismiss the idea of a suicide, but..."  
"You don’t think it was," Holmes concluded on his place.  
"I don’t have evidence, only my instinct."  
"Your instinct or your _heart_ , Detective Inspector Lestrade?" asked Mycroft, letting the _heart_ word slipping on his thin lips, tinted by reproach and distrust.  
"I’d think _homicide,_ " the DI continued, avoiding the question.  
"But Dr Watson saw it, with his _own eyes_."  
"The series of suicides Sherlock helped us solving last year..." said Lestrade, quickly, like he feared his theory could be rejected.  
But Mycroft gave himself some moments to think about it.  
"An induced suicide. The idea crossed my mind," he admitted, "but, no matter how much effort I put into this, I cannot imagine a single reason, a _logical_ reason, to force Sherlock to do something against his own will. No, he could not be overcome. Except by himself."  
"The cabby forced his victims to try their luck under a death threat," remember Greg, uncertain.  
"Jumping from St Bart’s rooftop is not trying one’s luck" replied Mycroft, sharp.  
"But a death threat..."  
"Come on, Detective Inspector! If someone had been in Sherlock’s company on the rooftop, he was enough brilliant to know that being hit by a bullet or being pushed down the roof would have been a _homicide_ and it would have ruined Moriarty’s plan. Don’t you believe he would have been able to understand and perform it? If only he had _wanted_ to."  
Mycroft knew he had reacted with too much energy.  
He did not understand how the DI could ever have doubted Sherlock’s suicide inclinations. Mycroft, who had been his brother and had known him for such a long time, had always suspected that, one day or another, Sherlock would have destroyed himself to show his bore or protest for the foolishness of the world.  
"What you must understand, Detective Inspector, is that Sherlock had always considered death far more interesting than life. Life, under his gaze, was dull and plain; death alone was able to keep one last secret."  
Gregory did not speak for some instants, then he shook his head.  
"Maybe you’re right, Mr Holmes. But why did he try to convince John he was a fake?"  
"Did he say _this_?" asked Mycroft, his blue eyes finally showing surprise. "This is unexpected. _Illogical_."  
"He tried to persuade John of his guilt and prayed him to give the message to me, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and..."  
"Not to me" concluded Mycroft, without blinking.  
"No. Not expressly. _To everyone who’ll listen._ "  
Mycroft crossed his fingers, elbows on the armrests and his head down. Then he spoke.  
"Last words of a dying man: Sherlock had no god, but he knew well who he ought to pray. I can easily imagine him giving up his life. But giving up John’s faith...oh, it’s really, really different. There must have been  no choice and..."  
Lestrade was absorbed: his lips barely opened like a boy captured by a fascinating tale, his body almost quivering in the attempt to jump to the end of a story...  
Mycroft shut up. His gaze became unfocused, like he had lost the thread of his thoughts.  
"You spoke about three blind spots. We examined only two," he commented, flatly.  
The DI jumped, caught by surprise. He seemed about to protest for that abrupt change in the trail of the speak, but something about Mycroft made him give up.  
It was like the glimmer of intimacy had been closed; for a moment it was no different than being with Watson – not _exactly_ , but like he and Mycroft were equals. He had almost forgotten he was in Holmes’s company: the Holmes do not share anything going on in their heads with DI Lestrade.  
"It’s about the killers, Mr Holmes," he answered, coldly. "They were spying on Sherlock to get the key code, maybe they have something about his death and Moriarty’s flight. Just tell me everything about them."  
" _No_."  
Mycroft had spoken without hesitation.  
"No?"  
"I am not going to give you any information," he made clear, quite harshly this time.  
Lestrade was astonished. He frowned, and Mycroft could see the rapid beat of his thoughts to the only conclusion which seemed obvious.  
"What do you want in return?" Gregory asked, fixing his dark eyes upon him.  
Mycroft let out an annoyed whimper and raised his gaze to the ceiling.  
"This information are not on sale, Detective Inspector."  
"Why? You had no scruples about sharing it with John Watson," he accused. Mycroft risked to smile at the unconscious competition. "Do you believe a Scotland Yard DI could do worse?"  
"I informed John to warn him of the coming storm. Your case is quite different, Detective Inspector: you ask me to help you to investigate about professional killers. The men we are talking about are not common criminals. Death is not an accident to them and they are not just carried away or pushed in the corner: it is a job they perform without a second thought."  
"I work in the homicide department at Scotland Yard since..."  
"And you have never handled a killer like those."  
Badly interrupted, the DI welcomed Mycroft’s – _correct_ – note with a smirk.  
"I’m not going to make a mistake. I’m not trying to convince you to value my badge. But it’s clear you cannot lead an official investigation about Sherlock’s death: you’ll have to _settle_ for me."  
The hint of contempt in Lestrade’s voice disappointed him. But Mycroft Holmes had the presumption of those used to make choices on behalf of others and, in good time, he had begun to mistake presumption for foresight: he was not tempted by compromise.  
"I have never thought of accusing you to overrate yourself, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he replied, with the fake smile he put up and down so easily. "Try to get to those killers and, at best, you’ll get a medal. _Posthumous._ "  
"If we were not talking about your brother’s death, I would have you arrested."  
"If you were not _suspended_ , Detective Inspector Lestrade, I would take your word."  
Lestrade rose. The rage veiled his body and his voice, giving him the same peevishness that distinguishes the skittish foal from the mild pack horse: angry Gregory Lestrade was still a boy.  
"Despite who you are and who I am, I hoped there was a chance to work together. I understand you cannot help but giving me orders and trying to control me."  
Mycroft’s rage was deep as Lestrade’s, but he knew how keep it down, how to force it to poison his blood and, at the same time, letting the surface untouched.  
"I am a man who gets what he wants" he answered, quietly.  
Lestrade withdrew, but he could not take his eyes away.  
"No, you are a man ready to pay _any_ price to get what he wants."  
 _Sherlock in return for Moriarty_.  
Mycroft kept a straight face. He met Lestrade’s eyes and the DI was the first to look away. He pulled on his coat, turning his back on Mycroft, sullen and surely not collected.  
"Good evening, Mr Holmes."  
Then the door banged close.  
When silence came back, Mycroft slightly moved his head. The fire was sleeping, evening was darkening the broad room and the lamp light was no more able to dispel the shadows.  
  
The soft moan of a wounded animal escaped Mycroft’s lips.


	4. The boy

It took three blocks to transform his rage in a softer impression, like the memory of a slap. It took the piercing evening air and then bodies pressed under the livid light of the underground.  
Mycroft Holmes’s voice was still lingering in his brain, but Lestrade was quieter now, at least enough to realize his wandering had taken him not far from Baker Street. His body, like his mind, seemed attracted to Sherlock’s places.  
He had no idea where John was living now. Not at his sister’s. Maybe he had rented a room, god knows where. Lestrade didn’t know how to explain John his failure with Mr Holmes. They had both trusted the possibility to get that information.  
He was under the impression that Molly Hooper was unusually grumpy and reticent. But she was not the only one whose nerves seemed on the breaking point every single time he tried to talk about Sherlock’s death.  
Greg sometimes sensed the wall, the abrupt closing of John’s mind. Lestrade was quite sure Dr Watson was unconscious of his defiance against the very idea of Sherlock’s suicide. Sometimes, noticing how John’s eyes seemed to follow a ghost, how his voice became hollow and he stumbled on words, Greg thought about his own cold blood.  
He was not indifferent to Sherlock’s death – nor he was to any death – but he was able to focus on facts and details. Able to avoid thinking about the man, for a moment.  
 _Does it make me a good cop or a bad person?  
_ It was late and he needed to go home, but something was keeping him in Baker Street. It could be something said by Mycroft or something about the killers. Sherlock had counted on his power of observation and his extraordinary memory to go on from deduction to deduction. Gregory Lestrade was not a stupid man – not in a kinder meter than Sherlock’s – but he had to review the few facts to give them meaning. Sometimes it was like trying to get blood from a stone.  
He got into the Speedy’s Café. The air was hot and heavy; Lestrade sit in a corner and ordered a cup of tea. He took off his coat and started flipping through the pages of his notebook, reading the notes of the last few days. The tea arrived but Lestrade made it wait.  
He read again what John had told him. He had tried to remember how much he could about the information he had had in his hands: a bunch of names, photos and Mycroft’s words.  
Sulejmani, the Albanian, had been the first one killed by a _colleague_. Another man, whose name John didn’t remember, had confessed to Sherlock the reason of the close watching – seconds before being shoot dead. Then there was a woman, Ludmila Dyachenko, maybe still hanging around, like the fourth killer, a young and handsome man according to John’s memories of the photo he had seen.    
Tired, Lestrade raised the cup to his lips – the tea was already too cold.  
In a corner, a young couple was arguing. The DI envied them. He just missed the time when his greatest problem was a girlfriend’s pout. The boy was trying to make peace with her, but she kept shaking her head and withdrawing her hands. They were so common, so young and absorbed by themselves: Greg smiled.  
 _So common_.  
Lestrade froze. _Something_...John Watson had said that the most scaring thing was not the mere presence of the killers in Baker Street and not even the idea they had been hiding waiting to kill him and Sherlock. What had made his blood run cold had been knowing that a killer does not make himself just _invisible_ , like a good sniper.  
 _These people are able to stand in broad daylight and yet you don’t really see them._  
Even DI Lestrade had barely seen them – he had risked to overlook Mrs Hudson’s words, but they were entangled somewhere in his mind and now he remembered well the maintenance man, the kind man who was in the flat on the day of Sherlock’s death.  
The man his company denied to have ever sent to Mrs Hudson’s door.  
It could be a simple coincidence...but Lestrade paid the bill and hoped Mrs Hudson wasn’t yet in his nightgown. 

***

The boy laid on the sheets, half-naked. His chest was raising and falling, his white slender body had the softness of the sleepers – _but he was awake._ His eyes, extraordinary blue eyes, velvety and mysterious, were open.  
He was thinking.  
He had many chances and one of them was leaving London and getting to Wien, where a safe and well-paid job was waiting for him. But he was not keen on this plan. _He loved London_. He seldom gave up the possibility to work in town and he often daydreamed about making London his headquarter. And he loved the Savoy, despite the exorbitant fare of the suite with a view on the Thames.  
Unfortunately – he admitted – luxury was his weakness. He was fond of comforts and he liked to pay to have them granted; this was, after all, the real reason behind his career choices.  
Whatever the common prejudices about his profession, he did not think himself as a bad man – he didn’t take more delight in his job than a shop assistant does, but this did not stop him nor the shop assistant from doing a _damn good job_.  
 _Just another try_ , he promised himself.  
He abandoned the bed, bathing in the city lights coming through the large window. He turned on the lamp and took a seat. He opened the case left on the table and took away the false bottom, then he pulled out what he needed for his plans.  
He controlled the gun and put on the silencer, considered a couple of knives and chose one.  
It did not take much time: it was a routine, less intriguing than choosing his clothes. The boy spied his own reflection on one of the mirror and tilted his head. He was thirty-four, but he looked younger. He had the bright and exciting charm of an adolescent, and like a teenager he fluctuated between a nervous delicacy of feeling and the cruellest indifference.  
He was registered at the Savoy as Damian Murray, but it was not his real name and no one was alive to remember it but him. They called him _the boy_. He was born in Györ, Hungary, but he spoke a flawless English: he preferred English identities.  
He had never done business with Jim Moriarty. He had thought about working for him, but he had been preceded by the news of a fabulous key code to open every door you could dream of. His American clients’ proposal had been very generous and he had accepted without a second thought: he was intrigued by the idea of being in London, on the same chessboard where the famous Moriarty and his arch-enemy, Sherlock Holmes, were playing.  
But now he was bored. Killing Sulejmani had been good for a change, but now Sherlock Holmes was dead, Moriarty vanished and a weird scandal had broken out. Ludmila had gone back to Russia. She thought the key code was buried with Sherlock Holmes or Moriarty would have put it on sale again. But the boy was not sure. During the long days spent in Baker Street – how much he hated that stifling attic room! – he had read everything about Sherlock Holmes: he had been _charmed_.  
So he did not want to give up.  
He had chosen carefully his destination and he had studied every bit of useful information. He was a good sniper and he knew the troubles of a break-in, but the boy preferred to kill into a house. He did not like a public assassination nor the baseness of alluring the victim in a stinking alley.  
The boy was fond of _domestic_ situation. With such a plan, he dived into the night.

*** 

He did not want to go home.  
It had been such a day that Greg feared the moment when he would have found himself in an empty house. No one to trust with his thoughts. During the first years of their marriage, no matter how absurdly late in the night, he and Linda had always had dinner together: squeezed on the small table of their first flat, their head so close to touch, talking about their day, moving from silly things to dramatic ones.  
Why had they stopped doing that?  
Why had they started to fight like they wanted to rip each other’s heart from the chest?  
But also coming back home and facing Linda’s rage had been better than an empty house. Greg had always known it and this was the reason he had tried to avoid the divorce. But Linda must have understood it, she must have understood it was _fear_ and not love, and she had run free.      
The street was very quiet, there was the blue light of a TV filtering from a window, from another came the cry of a baby. Greg was a stranger, carrying the burden of his last discoveries.  
He had met again Mrs Hudson. He had made some calls. He had received answered. And now he had some ideas, and the most important one was the possibility they had been very, very _lucky_.  
 _He’s a great man, and one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.  
_ He remember well his words to John Watson. It was what he had always thought about Sherlock. He had never been scared by his arrogance – although he had often wanted to punch him; he had been frightened but Sherlock’s blind confidence in the power of his own mind, by his contempt for the reasons of the heart.  
Now Gregory Lestrade had to admit Sherlock had been right all along: _alone_ , he had been safe, but _caring_ had killed him.  
 _If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, it must be the truth_ : Sherlock’s lesson was guiding him towards the only possible reason for his suicide – _blackmail_.  
Mycroft had betrayed Sherlock revealing his secrets to Jim Moriarty. Lestrade had betrayed him in his doubts. The public opinion and Scotland Yard had betrayed him by envy and revulsion. But the heart had been the last of traitors.  
Greg had told himself he had to think twice about it before speaking to anyone. But he knew there was something real in it, because he could not get rid of it.   
Willing or unwilling, he was at his door. He took the key from the coat, he turned it in the lock and the door was open. Lestrade froze, without knowing why his thoughts had stopped running. He realized the click had come _too_ soon. Linda had always insisted to double-lock the door. Linda was gone, but he had not lose the habit: three turn of the key, to be safe. Had he forgotten to properly close the door, when he had left for the Diogenes? _I was distracted, and impatient_ , he confessed to himself.  
He went in and closed the door, gently, without making a sound. He was cautious, even if he was not consciously alarmed. In the darkness he moved, knowing well each space and obstacle. He gave a look to the kitchen, to the soft echo of street lights on the shiny steel of the stove. The kitchen was empty, silent, exactly how he had left it. He went further along the corridor, until he saw the thin luminous line filtering through the door of the living room. He kept his breath.  
That was the moment when he made a terrible mistake. Because he should have called the police – but usually _Lestrade was the police_. Maybe the situation was so unreal and unexpected, unfocused by alcohol and tiredness, that he acted boldly and not as the sensible man he thought himself to be.  
He opened the door.  
Two things were immediately clear to his mind.  
The first one was that he had not a gun, because he had returned it with his badge, for the time of the suspension. The second one was that he, Greg Lestrade, was in trouble.


	5. A Guest after Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is waiting in Lestrade's flat.

“ _At last_ you’re back, Detective Inspector Lestrade. You had me waiting for hours.”  
“Yeah, I...I’m sorry,” he mumbled, caught by surprise. Then the absurdity of the situation hit him and left him temporarily breathless. “What _the hell_ are you doing in _my_ house?”  
Mycroft Holmes raised a brow, looking at him with his indiscreet blue eyes.  
He did not seem impressed at all by Lestrade’s reaction and he certainly was not going to leave the armchair he had settled for.  
“We must talk,” he replied, slightly annoyed.  
In spite of the irritation he sensed rising in his gut, Gregory had to acknowledge how Mr Holmes was carefully picking his words. He had not spoken for himself, he had not confessed his need or his desire, but he had described it like a a _duty_ they both had to fulfil. _Fuck you_ , thought Lestrade.  
“I wonder where you had been, Detective Inspector. It’s past midnight,” lamented Mycroft.  
He had changed his clothes after their afternoon meeting: he now wore a dark three-pieces suit, black or blue in the dim light of the living room, his shirt so white to look new and the knot of the dark red tie simply  flawless. Greg was dressed in the same clothes he had taken from his wardrobe that very morning.  
“Am I not followed by your minions, Mr Holmes?” he asked, nearly snarling.  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, with a sigh.  
“I cannot use the means of this government for personal business,” he explained.  
“Oh, _this_ is new.”  
“My patience is running out, Detective Inspector.”  
They exchanged a surly glance, and even Mycroft’s polite mask seemed about to break.  
“I should call the police,” Greg suggested, trying to provoke him.  
“I thought _you_ were the police,” Mycroft replied, quickly, with a disarming smile.  
But Lestrade shook his head, fleeing the impulse to laugh.  
He was angry with him. But not _enough_ , so he was angrier with himself.  
“You broke into my house to _talk_? Do you understand at least how much stupid it is?”  
“I have good reasons.”  
“I don’t give a fuck about your good reasons: you could...you could have phoned!”  
“After the not exactly satisfying conclusion of our afternoon meeting I was not sure you would answer my call,” he confessed, his voice softer, maybe embarrassed.  
“Christ...I’m a man, not a grumpy kid.”  
“I know,” Mycroft admitted, frowning.  
“I could have shot you, don’t you think?”  
“You have not a gun. Retained, like your badge.”  
Greg raised a hand to his face.  
The irritating voice of his conscience suggested him that, after all, he had feared to find his home empty. _How ironic_ – Mycroft Holmes was in _his_ living room, in _his_ armchair. Not exactly what he had looked for, but, in truth, his ideas had become rather confused lately.  
“You cannot try to control me. You cannot break into my house without being invited and force my lock...how the hell did you do it?”  
“Even sedentary men have some practical abilities, Detective Inspector.”  
“You are... _unbelievable_.”  
“Yes?” asked Mycroft, with a glimpse of smugness. Lestrade was astonished.  
“I fear you do not understand at all. What makes you think I’m not going to throw you out of my house?”  
Lay a single hand on Mr Holmes and odds are good of being sent into exile in some damned cold Yorkshire village. But Greg Lestrade was ready to take his chances.  
“You are not going to do anything. You want to know what I’m willing to say,” Mycroft replied.  
Greg bit his tongue. He had to admit the other man had hit the spot. He wanted to show his rage to Mr Holmes and he wanted his respect, but his curiosity was stronger.  
Mycroft Holmes was a tyrant, but not the kind of man who breaks into your house on a whim or to prove he can do it – he was not Sherlock.  
“Fine. _Take a seat_ , please. Can I offer you something to drink?” he asked, sneering.  
“I would appreciate a cup of tea. One sugar, no milk,” answered Mycroft, ready.  
For a moment the damned cold Yorkshire village was very tempting.  
“You should have made yourself at home,” Greg muttered under his breath.  
Mycroft’s eyes went wide open and he slightly shook his head.  
“It would have been awfully rude and indiscreet venturing into your kitchen during your absence,” he explained. He seemed truly bewildered, almost offended by the possibility of being valued as a man capable of violating the holy cupboard.  
Greg gave up: he was too stupid, or too wise, to keep fighting. He hurried back to the kitchen.  
He put off his coat and his jacket. He took the teapot and two cups. Fortunately Holmes did not want any milk: the milk in the fridge had turned sour and he had forgotten to buy it. He was under the impression that the discovery could have cost him a lesson in domestic economy by Mr Holmes.  
He filled the kettle and looked for a tray Linda used to serve the guests. But he could not find it, because he had never received anyone of consequence since she had left. Usually who knocked on his door had a car waiting to carry him on a crime scene.  
 _Bloody Holmes_. He had broken in his house like a thief and now he would have been served like an honoured guest. The kettle whistled. He slightly burned his fingers before remembering the pot holder. He filled the teapot.  
Then he raised his eyes and saw Mycroft, carelessly leant against the door frame, hands behind his back and an absorbed look which vanished at the surprise, and disappointment, of being caught.  
Greg, on the contrary, wondered how much time he had been observed.  
They both avoided each other’s gaze.  
“I was going to...”  
“I’d prefer to stay here. I believe a man’s kitchen says much more than his living room,” Mycroft argued, with a smile. A complicity Greg was not ready to share.                     
“After the break-in are you going to lecture me about _my kitchen_?” he asked, harsh.  
...his kitchen where lingered the strange sadness of a place deserted and emptied, not lived nor owned. _I’m a lonely man_ , thought Lestrade, forcing himself to put back the kettle.  
“I have the information you wanted, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” was said behind his back.  
Greg turned without trying to hidden his surprise, or the relief at being on a less dangerous path.  
“Are you serious?” he asked, frowning.  
Holmes slightly smiled at his suspicions.  
With the studied gesture of a conjurer extracting a rabbit from his top-hat, Mycroft dropped a file on the table. Lestrade bit his lower lip: he was obviously anxious to read, but he did not want to seem impatient. He sit down, filled his cup and closed his hands on it. Mycroft was still standing. What a strange kind of man was he, sneaking in his house at night and now waiting for an invitation to join him?  
“Please, take a seat,” he murmured, strangely uncomfortable.  
It was weird being on his territory and not on Mycroft Holmes’s. But there was also something he was going to admit to himself later: he was annoyed by the idea that Mycroft’s eyes could find out that... _there was nothing to find out_. He was a mediocre employee at Scotland Yard, and without Sherlock’s help too many cases would have stayed unsolved and more lives wasted, he was not well learned or posh, he read little and had no taste...  
Mycroft was pouring his tea - a brief concert of measured gestures. Watching his control on his own body and space, Greg wondered if he had ever knocked a glass, spilled his tea. _Improbable_.  
“Have you changed your mind after our meeting?” he asked, focusing his attention on the file.  
“Obviously not, Detective Inspector.”  
Mycroft looked slightly outraged at being judged so inconsistent.  
“Why then?” Lestrade insisted, beginning to fear there was some unpleasant surprise in the end.  
“When you left the Diogenes, did you decide to give up the plan of hunting the killers or did you made a vow of investing all of your energy in that plan of yours, in firm opposition to my advices? _There_ is your answer,” he concluded, taking a look at his face.  
“I don’t understand,” confessed Greg, with a shade of shyness.  
“Detective Inspector, your stubbornness is not a mystery to me more than it is to you: I had no doubt that, with or without my cooperation, you were going to carry on your investigation and I reached the conclusion that my help is not going to make it worse. At least, you will have a chance to survive the attempt.”  
Greg remained silent, his eyes still on the file standing between him and Mycroft.  
“What are you thinking about?” Mycroft’s voice was thick with unusual tension  
“About your reasons. You prefer being part of something you do not approve rather than losing control on it,” replied Lestrade. When he realized he had _really_ spoken his thoughts, he raised his guilty eyes on the other man.  
He found him surprised, but not in a bad way.  
“Does it make me a despot?” asked Mycroft, after a moment.  
“Also.”  
“I like to consider myself quite _protective_.”  
Greg looked at him, his cup raised in mid-air. Then he nodded.  
“I understand your will to protect Sherlock’s friends.”  
Lestrade spoke only after he had taken his eyes off Mycroft and opened the file. Because of this he remained fully unconscious of the disappointment on Mycroft’s face.  
The file contained a couple of photos of a rather handsome man, with black and curly hair. The photos had been clearly taken without his knowledge and they didn’t give the chance to focus on his features, but they were a good start point.  
“What about the other three killers?”  
“I brought you the files of the dead killers too, but I doubt they’ll be useful. Ludmila Dyachenko left the Country. The boy is the only one around.”  
“What do you mean by _around_?”  
“A suite, at the Savoy. Under the name of Damien Murray.”  
Greg whistled and his eyes returned to the file.  
“It’s not all.”  
Lestrade raised his dark eyes: from his jacket, Mycroft drew a gun and put it on the table.  
“It’s not registered and it will be useful if you want to go after him,” he cleared, before noticing Lestrade’s puzzled look. “Is there anything wrong?”  
“I...well, considering the people I imagine you know...I was expecting a more _Bond-like_ weapon,” Greg confessed, slightly ironic.  
“The economic crisis spares nobody,” replied Mycroft, impassive, gently pushing the Browning towards Lestrade.  
When Greg closed his fingers on the gun, Mycroft’s hand was on his wrist. The unexpected touch sent a shiver down his spine. The fingertips were slightly digging in the soft skin of the inner wrist and Greg felt his blood pulsing in Mycroft’s grasp.  
“Do you know what you’re doing, Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Holmes asked.  
Even if Greg’s eyes were still on the gun, he knew he was watched.  
“ _I hope so_.”  
The voice which came from his lips wasn’t his. It was thicker, lower.  
“There is not time to be modest, Detective Inspector,” the other man admonished him, irritated. “What are you but a foolish brave man?”  
Whatever was happening, the harsh note touched by Mycroft ended it.  
Holmes’s hand abandoned his, Lestrade took the gun and searched for a spiteful reply. In vain.  
“I was thinking about Sherlock’s death...” he said, instead, trying to use a cold tone.  
Holmes made a gesture for him to continue.  
“Do you remember when you contacted me about the...”Greg hesitated, “... _burglar_ who broke in the 221B? Do you remember to have ordered me to keep it quiet and then give you the man?”  
“I would like for you to remember the episode as a _favour_ which makes me grateful.”  
“A favour is something I can refuse. A possibility I believe was not implied.”  
“No, it was not,” Mycroft admitted. “Do you want to list the times you received orders by me, Detective Inspector Lestrade? I’m flattered you keep them in memory.”  
“I just want to be sure you’re acquainted with the state of health of the man who was carried away by the ambulance from Baker Street.”  
“I remember perfectly well _his_ friends’ disappointment, so yes, I had been informed.”  
“Do you also know how he got hurt?”  
“ _Clumsiness_ , I remember.”  
Lestrade made a face. Mycroft Holmes never showed his hand, even when they both knew _who_ had caused to the American two broken ribs, head injuries and lesser damages.  
“I asked Sherlock how many times he had fallen from the window. He answered me he had lost the count,” continued the DI. “John Watson told me Mrs Hudson had been threatened: my regret is having been informed _after_ I had permitted you to take that man from my custody.”  
Mycroft nodded, slowly, eyes half-closed.  
“I see where you want to get, Detective Inspector. The case clearly shows how Sherlock could react when there was something threatening the safety of a person who, god knows why, was under his protection.”  
There was a glimpse of annoyance on Greg’s face.  
The behaviour of the Holmes brothers had looked so similar at first sight. Now he knew he had been wrong: Sherlock’s roughness towards other people’s feelings had often been a kind of cruel naïveté. Mycroft’s cruelty was a _choice_.  
Sherlock had often failed to recognize the value of a human being, but Mycroft was always able to set the price.  
“At the Diogenes you told me you didn’t see any reason for Sherlock to kill himself, aside from his own will,” said Lestrade, after choking back the desire to break Mycroft's composure...punching him. “There was a man in the 221B, the very day of Sherlock’s death. A man who claimed to be sent by the electric company, but the company denies it. I thought he could be one of the killers living in Baker Street. He could have seen Sherlock’s escape and decided to take advantage of his absence to search the flat for the key code.”  
“The boy?”  
“Mrs Hudson’s description doesn’t look like him.”  
“And obviously not like Ludmila Dyachenko.”  
“John repeated me all he knows about the killers, but the man described by Mrs Hudson is not one of them. I wondered if he could be another criminal looking for the key code”  
“But you eventually discarded the idea, didn’t you?” Mycroft asked.  
“I went back to 221B and asked to Mrs Hudson to tell me all about this man. I might have frightened her, but she assured me she had never left him alone in the flat, except to bring him a cup of tea. This is very strange: how could he possibly find out the key code while Mrs Hudson was there? He should have tried to get rid of her, by trick or by force. I believe it’s clear this man wasn’t there for the key code. And he was not waiting for John or Sherlock, because Watson got back to the 221B and nothing happened. Then why was the man in the flat? It can’t be a coincidence, not on the very day of Sherlock Holmes’s death!”  
“No coincidence” agreed Mycroft, quietly.  
“I asked Mrs Hudson if someone could have frightened our man and induced him to leave the flat without fulfilling his purpose. But there was a only message on the man’s cell phone: he explained to Mrs Hudson how he was urged to go by his company...he got his tools and left.”  
Greg stood up. Repeating aloud his reconstruction of the events had been an electrifying effect on him: his tone, from uncertain, had become stronger and more enthralling and now he needed to move. He drank up a glass of water.  
“What did the message say? Mrs Hudson is a great fan of some TV programme and she’s sure the man left just in time for her not to lose the headlines of her favourite soap opera...only minutes before, Sherlock had jumped. This can’t be a coincidence.”  
“That man had been informed of what had happened.”  
“He had been informed of Sherlock’s death and how did he react? He left 221B,” Greg shook his head, wandering around the kitchen at wide and nervous steps. “If these criminals were sure Sherlock had the key code in his house and they had taken care of his safety, once dead they should have been keen to search the entire house. But this man didn’t even try. On the contrary, he worried about being in Mrs Hudson’s company.”  
“And this is the reason why you believe that man’s purpose was not the key code.”  
“Eliminated the impossible...I haven’t yet found another answer: _in the 221B, a man was waiting for Sherlock’s death_. Once Sherlock’s dead, his purpose was over.”  
“His purpose would have been killing Mrs Hudson _if_ Sherlock had not committed suicide.”  
The glass slipped from Lestrade’s hand. The dry sound of the glass splitting and scattering made them both wince. Greg looked at the kitchen floor, covered by splinters. He passed his hand through his grey hair.  
“I’m such a mess,” he murmured. He started to pick up the glass pieces.  
“You’ll end up cutting yourself,” Mycroft warned him, annoyed.  
Lestrade ignored him. He throw the bigger pieces in the bin, but he sensed the smaller slivers rustling beneath his shoes. He had reached the same conclusion, but having it flaring in Holmes’s voice had been a surprise. It became real, and it was sharp like glass.  
“It is true, isn’t it? The only reason for Sherlock to launch himself from St Bart’s rooftop.”  
“It’s likely to be in the style of Moriarty,” agreed Mycroft. “He uses death as an incentive.”  
Greg observed the man. He was still sit on the chair, head upright, firm gaze, his hands in his lap. _A sphinx_ – and Lestrade had never been sharp with riddles. He took off his eyes.  
“Do you believe Mrs Hudson was the only one under death threat?”  
Mycroft laughed, a low and off-pitch laugh, a sinister sound that made Lestrade quiver.  
“No. Moriarty does nothing by halves, he never leaves a _masterpiece_ unfinished. Did you try to imagine the scene, Detective Inspector Lestrade?” asked Holmes, but he did not wait for an answer. “Sherlock at the top of the building: he understands Moriarty’s intentions, sure he cannot have any doubts when he’s on the rooftop. Maybe Moriarty is with him. Sherlock’s mind quickly examines every chance in his hand. But Moriarty is always one step ahead of him, he doesn’t give him respite and he destroys every solution, blocks every way. Sherlock is nothing but a mouse in a maze and soon he will have nothing in sight but his own fall.”  
Greg wanted to interrupt Mycroft, but he was hypnotized by the quiet and relentless rhythm of his words.  
“Eventually, the pact with the devil is revealed: the life of his loved ones for his suicide. Watson, _obviously_ , and this could be enough, but Jim Moriarty is greedier than this, he wants more than destroying and killing Sherlock. He craves an overwhelming victory, he wants the power over all those related to Sherlock Holmes. That’s why Mrs Hudson is on his list, e probably there is also the DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Is anyone missing?” and Mycroft tilted his head, allowing himself a moment to think. “No, naturally my name is not on the list. Harder from a practical point of view, I know, but above all it’s unnecessary. Moriarty has three names and they’re all Sherlock’s life, all his heart to choke. Three names and they must look _few_ to your eyes, Detective Inspector...  
Lestrade was under the impression of suffocating. He stood against the fridge, his eyes widened on Mycroft Holmes.  
“Too many, instead. Too many, because those three names are exactly what forced my brother to launch himself from St Bart’s, without even trying to save his life.”  
 _My brother_.  
And Greg understood that Mycroft, no matter how much composed he seemed, was devoured by rage. He was deeply angry, and angry at Lestrade, because he was one of the reasons for Sherlock to be dead.  
 _My life for his_ – and the cruelty of the contract made his stomach twitch.  
Had he kept his relation with Sherlock on a professional ground? _No.  
_ He had admired him, he had favoured him. On the investigations account, surely, but also for the pleasure of working with such a brilliant mind, hoping to learn something. Pressed by Mycroft, he had been overprotective: he had tried to keep Sherlock safe and he had heartily defended him from the rumours at the Yard.  
Since the day John Watson had taken place in Sherlock Holmes’s life, considering him a human being had been simpler and simpler. When Lestrade had joined them at Dartmoor, he had felt like a teammate. And being invited to John’s Christmas party, despite Sherlock’s words about Linda, had made him feel less alone.  
He had liked to think of Sherlock Holmes as a _friend_.  
If this had been enough to make unbearable the memory of his suspects and the attempted arrest, knowing to be so deeply involved with his death...  
“Caring is not an advantage.”  
Holmes’s voice was nearer than he had expected, two steps away from him. Lestrade realized his hand was closed on the fridge handle as his life depended on it. He was making a fool of himself, he knew: a grown-up man, a Scotland Yard DI, on the verge of tears. He blinked, quickly.  
“Since when did you know?” he asked.  
“Do you know what is the ability which assures me a minor position in the British government?” he asked Mycroft in turn. Greg shook his head. “ _I imagine scenarios._ From data, I work out all the possibilities, perspectives and developments. I estimate advantages and disadvantages, I exclude the impossible and warn about the probable.”  
“Not very different from Sherlock’s doing about a crime.”  
“But while Sherlock worked on the ground, finding out for himself his answers, I am a man who prefers the mind work to the leg work.”  
“Then you knew this was...”  
“No. I did not lie to you this afternoon. The idea was on my mind, but I judged it foolish. _And dramatic_.”  
“You didn’t tell me.”  
“I knew you would have found evidences.”  
Lestrade, stunned, absorbed the idea that probably Mycroft Holmes trusted him and his abilities more than anyone else. Mycroft stood still, hands behind his back, an unreadable expression on his face. He did not look about to come closer, but this didn’t stop Greg from being suddenly aware of his physical presence. It was a soft tingling, blooming from his wrist where he had been touched.  
“I have to check the facts. If I was among the targets, there must have been someone... _ready for me_ , at Scotland Yard. Another must have followed John and never lost sight of him. Maybe I should also care about...” and he was about to add _Molly Hooper_ , when he was interrupted.  
“I do not believe Dr Watson will be able to help you.”  
“His memories of that day are quite confused and...” Lestrade suddenly understood and nodded. “ You’re right. There’s no need to talk about this to John. Not now.”  
Mycroft looked at his pocket watch.  
“I believe it’s time to accord you the sleep of the just.”  
 _I look bad_ , Lestrade told himself.  
“Mr Holmes,” he called him, a moment before the other man turned away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”  
Greg feared an harsh answer, but Mycroft nodded, greeting, slightly cautious, his condolences.  
“If you want to punch me now, I’ll understand” Lestrade added.  
“What on Earth are you talking about?” Mycroft burst out, dazed.  
But he found out something on Greg’s face – _sympathy_ , because he understood.  
“If I have hard feelings against you, Detective Inspector Lestrade, it’s against my will. However, punching you would be hardly my style.”  
Greg hold back a smile. Even talking about _punching_ was hardly Mycroft’s style.  
“You could always order someone to do it.”  
“Yes, I could” agreed Mycroft, with a smile.


	6. The Lake House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg follows the killer known as "the boy".

On the passenger seat, there was a paper bag with toasts and a thermos filled with tea, a bottle of water and three _chocolate_ bars – his weakness; _The Sound of The Smiths_ , which Linda had given him some years before, for the last birthday he had celebrated with her; a book from the nearest library – _The Vesuvius Club_ – and a couple of magazines.  
It was a bright afternoon. The Thames was covered in a light glow and Greg had lowered the car window to enjoy the shy warmth of breeze.  
He was not sure of Dan’s reliability, but he was his best chance. Dan was employed at the Savoy as _conciérge_. In truth, when Greg had met him, he had not been promoted yet. When Greg had met him, Dan the _conciérge_ -to-be, had been involved in a nasty business with a girl found dead in a flat in Soho. Dan had never been among the suspects and the investigation had been simpler than expected, once reconstructed the events and interrogated the witnesses. This had not stopped Dan from being scared to death at the idea of compromising his position at the Savoy.  
Lestrade, suspicious as always towards the press, had been discreet and Dan’s name had never been on the newspapers. Greg had not had a special care about Dan – on the contrary, he had taken a dislike to him, more worried about his personal melodrama than about the poor strangled girl. But he had never fed up the gossip with innocent men.  
From his absurd point of view, Dan had looked upon the DI’s ethic as a _favour_ he returned with a bottle of _champagne_ every Christmas. Two years before, Linda had said something about how Greg should have tried to solve more cases like that. He had emptied the bottle in the toilet bowl.  
But this was the occasion to give Dan the chance to show his gratitude without champagne. At the beginning, Dan had fight against the whole idea, but Lestrade had been firm on and maybe Dan had suspected it was blackmail...Greg – he was slightly ashamed about this – had said nothing to change Dan’s impression.  
The _conciérge_ had agreed to keep Lestrade informed about Mr Murray’s moves. Greg knew well how few chances he had to intercept the boy. The first day, Dan had not called. The second one he had lost the boy’s car in the traffic.  
As a Scotland Yard DI he could have granted a better surveillance, more constant and efficient; as _suspended_ Scotland Yard DI, Lestrade had to share his turns with John and, after three days, his body was sore from the many hours spent in his car. From time to time he stretched his legs, but he never walked too far from the car. He leant against the parapet, looking at the Thames, hands in his pockets – the left on the phone, the right on the car key.  
Watson wanted the night hours – _I am sleepless_ , he had explained. Greg had not refuse, realizing that being useful to their investigation seemed the only thing able to keep John away from apathy.  
Greg’s eyes had been fixed on the same lines for several minutes and yet he was not sure about the content of the article – _football_ , however. He liked playing football. There had been a time when he had used to spend every Sunday afternoon on the quarter pitch, but that time was over. Friends who had carried him in triumph, the very friends whose beers he had paid for many times, were gone: they had always been Linda’s friends before his and they had chosen their team.  
And then he found himself thinking about Mycroft Holmes.  
Every meeting with Mr Holmes left him confused, since the first time he had been picked up from a crime scene by that pretty personal assistant whose name he could never remember.  
Greg Lestrade did not consider himself an intellectual. Not the kind of person who spends more than a minute analyzing the behaviour of those around him – not outside an investigation, at least. In Mycroft’s company, his instinct was frustrated, his perceptions confused. He was forced to recall, slowly, every moment and every word, knowing only that behind all he had seen and heard there must have been _something else_ , and that was more important than the rest.  
Mycroft Holmes induced him to act like in front of a _suspect_ – the problem being that he was not sure which crime charge him with. Apart from the impossible arrogance, the annoying despotism and the inimitable self-control, obviously.  
He had not forgotten the part played by Mycroft in Moriarty’s plan. But, although he had not forgiven the man for having sold his brother’s secrets, Greg did not claim the right to judge him. No matter how hard he tried to fool his public, Mr Holmes had a conscience – and this pricked him, or, at least, it was what Lestrade was sure about after their last meeting.  
It had always been difficult to understand Sherlock for the incredible quickness and complexity of his thoughts. But there was in Mycroft a natural vocation to secrecy, whereas Sherlock often did not made the smallest effort to hide even the more unpleasant of his opinions.  
At the beginning, Greg had thought Mycroft did not want to cooperate. He had been sure that he did not trusted his abilities or John’s, and he had not understood what position the man was in, because he was used to think Mycroft’s influence as boundless.  
It was exactly what Mycroft had let him think with each of his words, with every little detail of their meeting, since that first time when he had _kindly_ asked for his cooperation to guarantee Sherlock’s safety – and harmlessness – on crime scenes.  
At the time, Lestrade had told himself he was just accepting a reasonable proposal. He had no more delusion about it: he had never had a choice: Mycroft Holmes had always been ten steps ahead.  
Then it was strange thinking that his power could be suffering. Mycroft Holmes had assumed the responsibility of dealing with Moriarty, the criminal mind who threatened to bring to its knees the security system of a whole Country. And what did he got from that?  
As human being, Mycroft had lost a brother.  
As man _behind_ the British government, he must have been accused to have lost his iron grip.  
A man who cannot protect his own brother can protect a Nation?  
Mycroft had not spoken about this. Not a sigh, not a complain. Greg had slowly collected evidence of the shipwreck. Why showing up in his house, when a more _formal_ meeting could have been arranged? Keeping a close eye on the _boy_ could have been easier but Mr Holmes was no more allowed to meddle his reasons with the government’s. Like Lestrade, he was forced to act alone.  
He had decided to show up at Lestrade’s house because, ironic!, that was the _safer_ place and the most discreet. He had excluded his subordinates, maybe because of mistrust or maybe because he did not want to involve them in something so risky.  
From this point of view, Greg thought better about Holmes’s behaviour. His rage was tempered, his sympathy prevailed; he wanted, more or less consciously, to do something for Mycroft. He was looking for answers about Sherlock’s death and Moriarty’s disappearance, but he was not worried only about honouring Holmes’s faith in him. He wanted to be more _friendly_.  
Greg was disturbed by the idea that every conversation with Mycroft had to imply a winner and a loser. In other circumstances he would have tried to break the stalemate with a beer. But he was under the impression it was not going to be so simple with Mycroft Holmes.  
  
The light was fading and Greg felt somehow tired: his body was aching, his head heavy, his hope weak. He was about to take a walk when his cell phone ringed. Holding his breath, he read the message. The tiredness melted down and Greg’s moves became quick: he threw the phone on the passenger seat, started the car and drove into the traffic.  
His mind was empty except for what he had to do, like a good hound when his nostrils catch the smell of the prey. And then Murray’s Porsche was just there. Why the boy had chosen _that_ car, it was a mystery. In the file about the boy there were a couple of lines dedicated to his weakness for luxury. Obviously the boy had a strong faith in his own ability to be invisible and lethal. _Overconfident_ , Greg thought, without losing sight of the Porsche.  
They were leaving the centre of London. Lestrade was puzzled: where was the boy heading for?  
When they took the M4, Lestrade phoned Watson.  
"News?" asked John, his voice thick with weariness and pessimism.  
"Maybe. I’m on M4."  
"Are you leaving London?"  
"Temporarily. He didn’t check out from the Savoy or Dan would have told me."  
"Then it’s not going to be a long journey..." John concluded.  
"Go to the Savoy, however. He could be back...I’ll call you later."  
"Do you want me to...inform _someone_?" Watson asked, leaving Greg perplexed.  
A big truck passed his car and hid the Porsche. He slightly swore under his breath and sped up.  
"I have to go, bye."  
"Good luck!" John managed to say, a second before Lestrade hung up.  
Soon the Porsche was again on sight. Despite the power of the engine, the boy was moving at a mild pace: Lestrade’s old and dear Volkswagen was keeping up.  
  
And then London was behind them, big and shining and quivering in the night like a mysterious and exotic beast. The night had fallen and Greg senses the tiredness conquering his body, the rush of adrenalin consumed by the prolonged chase. He was more and more distant from his home, his bed, a hot shower, the pizza he wanted to order.  
 _Where is he going?_ Damn, he did not want to find himself in Cardiff.  
They passed Reading. The night was dark, with few stars. In the glimmer of the headlamps, the landscape was monotonous, an endless trail of rolling grounds and soft brushes of trees. What was the boy looking for in the middle of the Wiltshire?  
He had no idea where the Porsche was running to. He knew he was somewhere between Bath and Swindon and he regretted for the first time he had not considered Linda’s will to have a GPS. The Porsche took a turn on a private road, Greg stopped his car at fifty yards.  
 _Here we are_. But where? A mansion, a cottage, a shooting lodge?  
The last hamlet they had passed through was no more than a small group of cottages folded between hills. Could Jim Moriarty’s Head Quarter be a country mansion? Lestrade had thought Moriarty more... _urban_. From the dashboard he took a pocket torch and the gun, and he left the car. He turned on the torch, but he kept it down, enlightening the night just enough to find the entrance to the private road.  
The road ran among trees and the ground was soft under his shoes, but every time he trampled on a twig the sound seemed too clear in the damp air. He saw the Porsche, parked near a stone fence. He approached the car, cautiously, then he raise the torch and the gun, in a swift movement, but the driver seat was empty.  
He let out a breath.  
The fence was not very high, easy to climb. The iron gate was closed, but it seemed unguarded by alarm or dogs. Lestrade knew, deeply in his heart, it could not be so simple, but it was too late to go back. He had to get away with it alone and at least he had to try to find out where he was.  
He climbed the wall, rather clumsily, stifling a curse and getting scratches on the raw stones. He slipped down on the other side and was about to pull out the gun, but a voice froze him.  
“Hands on your head, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
 _Fuck_.  
Greg would have gladly slapped himself...but he doubted this could have stopped a bullet. Then he obeyed. He heard the sound of steps – light and measured steps – and he was frisked, quickly and efficiently.  
Deprived of the Browning and the torch, he sensed the mouth of a gun pressing against his back.  
“Did you really believe I had not been aware of you, DI?”  
The boy – it was him, naturally, even if Greg had not the chance of seeing his face– spoke in a quiet, gentle voice. He didn’t seem annoyed or about to lose control. On the contrary, there was a hint of amusement in his silk timbre.  
“I’m deeply pleased to meet you,” continued the boy, slightly sharpening the pressure of the gun among his shoulder blades. “Move on,” he ordered, and Lestrade did not fight.  
He knew the boy had had the opportunity to kill him while he was climbing the fence. If the boy was willing to let him live, there was a reason. So he walked, looking around for a way out.  
 _Quiet, be quiet_ , one step after another. Trees, always trees, the ground changing under his feet. Maybe he had a chance to run through the wood.  
“You’re on the newspapers, Detective Inspector Lestrade: _the man of Sherlock Holmes_ at the Yard, am I right?” the boy asked, highly pleased. He spoke in a low voice, but they were too close and too silent the night for Lestrade to lose even one of his words. “I recognised you immediately, even if the journalists don’t do justice to your stubbornness. I feared you were not going to follow here, but you have not disappointed me.”  
Greg bit his tongue. Well, that was the reason why following the boy had been so simple. _He wanted it_. And he had chosen the Porsche to be always on sight, he had travelled at low speed and never, never tried to leave him behind. The _overconfident_ one was him, Lestrade, who had thought to have him on a leash and instead he was but taking the bait. _Stupid, stupid fish_.  
“You should talk, DI,” suggested the boy. “I find very unpleasant being under the impression of talking to myself.”  
“Where are we?” he asked, abruptly. Let’s the cat out of the bag.  
“You don’t know, do you? This makes things much more exciting. Did you come here alone, DI Lestrade?”  
“ _No_ ,” replied Greg, hesitating for a second. It took too long, because the boy chuckled, and the mouth of the gun drummed on his back.  
“You are an awful liar. You’re alone, and probably no one knows where you are. Ah, _there it is_.”  
Lestrade saw it too, while a pale moon was wriggling out of the clouds: the house on the lake.  
It was a stone cottage, an old, sturdy building, softened by the vine climbing to the roof. There was a pond, whose water surface was stained in green. In the little garden between the cottage and the pond there was a headless statue on the verge of breaking to bits, corrupted and darkened by time.  
Greg hadn’t much time to appreciate the place, because the boy pressed the gun against his back. They walked to the middle of the little garden.  
“Stop, now,” he ordered and Lestrade stood still.  
The façade of the cottage was dark. Not a single sound escaped its walls.  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade is keeping me company,” announced the boy, his voice now loud and clear. Greg started, waiting for an answer, but nothing happened. The silence swallowed the boy’s words, like a pebble vanishing under the lake surface.  
The gun left Greg’s back, only to be pressed on his head.  
“This brave man followed me here. It would be such a shame to kill him to make my opinion clear,” he continued, articulating each word in the still night.  
Lestrade’s eyes were on the cottage, looking for a tiny, tiny sign of life – but the windows were hollow sockets. He wondered if launching himself on the grass could save him.  
He tried to remind himself it was not the first time he had found himself in a death grip and yet he had got away when no one would have bet on him: he could survive another time, he could be scared by death and survive.  
“I’ll count to ten,” decided the boy, showing how much annoying he found that scene: he had the patient and firm tone he would have used with children. “Then, the Detective Inspector will die.”  
 _Nine_. He had to wait till nine and then take his chances.  
“One.”  
He could sense the metal mouth against his head.  
“Two.”  
His arms were sore, his mind was numb. He wanted to move, just a little, to be sure his brain was still able to command his body. Only to be sure he had not changed in a salt statue.  
“Three. Is a man’s life worth so little?” asked the boy, apparently disappointed.  
 _Save me. Save me_. Whoever was in the house, whoever the boy was teasing, he _had to_ save him.  
“Four.”  
 _I’m going to die._


	7. M for Mycroft

Gregory was frozen on the spot. Behind him, partially hidden in the shadows, the boy. He saw Gregory’s eyes slightly widening, darker than ever in the paleness of his face: he must have been rather dazzled by the sudden light from the porch, but now he recognized him and the surprise took his breath away.  
Oh, he _always_ knew how to make en entrance.  
He took a step ahead, another one, then stopped. The boy was looking at him. Gregory’s life depended on what the boy would have seen: he had left the porch for the no man’s land, only to persuade the boy that he really wanted to make a deal for the DI’s safety.  
Surprise had vanished from Lestrade’s face, and now he looked simply frightened. He felt his eyes looking for an answer or a signal. But he kept his composure, not a glance – not under the rapacious gaze of the boy, who would have used each detail to his own advantage.  
“Mr Mycroft Holmes,” the boy greeted him.  
Mycroft raised his head. The light from the porch slipped on his face, without mercy, revealing his ghastly pallor, the intrusive nose, the disdainful line of his lips...but also the firmness of his blue eyes. Those fell on Gregory, unexpectedly.  
“Are you hurt, Detective Inspector Lestrade?” he asked, kindly.  
He saw him wetting his lips and then being able to get out a feeble _no_. Mycroft nodded, slowly. He went back to the darker shape of the boy.  
“Mr. _Murray_ ,” he welcomed him.  
He was sure the boy was smiling in the shadows.  
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Holmes. I know very little about you and I presume it’s still more than you would like. They call you the _Ice Man_.”  
“I’m already acquainted with... _this_ , thank you,” replied Mycroft, politely.  
“Yet you didn’t wait for me counting up to ten, nine at least,” the boy teased him.  
“I prefer to be in good time at my appointments. It gives a better impression and there is no risk of someone annoyed by the waiting and therefore ill-disposed towards me,” he explained, without losing his aplomb. He caught a glimpse of Gregory’s bewildered face at that cruel and meaningless pantomime played on his head.  
“ _An appointment_? I hoped to catch you by surprise,” the boy confessed.  
“The key code for his life,” Mycroft interrupted him, in a dry tone.  
There was a moment of silence before the boy resumed his talking, like he had taken his time to savour the other man’s declaration.  
“Believe me if I confess I’d like to applaud you. I suspected you were _good_ , but not _so_ good: straight to the heart of the matter, without hesitation or doubts. I hope, for your Detective Inspector at least, this also means you have got the key code.”  
“ _Obviously_.”  
“How did you get it? Where is Jim Moriarty?” the boy asked, his voice now sharper.  
Mycroft tilted his head, slightly, frowned and...  
“Before your very eyes, Mr Murray.”     
If Mycroft had suddenly stripped naked, he would have not been able to shock Lestrade more deeply – _oh, well_. Gregory was astounded, petrified: he feared to see him doing something silly, but what he noticed was only his mouth closing tightly when the boy pushed the gun against his nape, nervously.  
“What does it mean?” asked the killer, too harshly to hide his amazement.  
“I admit it’s not perfectly correct to say _I am Jim Moriarty_ ,” indulged Mycroft, with a swift nod. “I should say _I created Jim Moriarty_.”  
“Christ.”  
It was Gregory, under his breath. Mycroft froze, but the boy did not seem too concerned with the language of his hostage.  
“Jim Moriarty is a creature of the British government?” the boy tried.  
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so dull. Jim Moriarty was a _diversion_ : he had been able to dispel all the attention from me or my business. If there is a _great adversary_ out there, in the darkness, no one will be worried about the enemy on the inside. And Moriarty is...so charming, isn’t he?” Mycroft’s eyes shone behind the half-closed eyelids. “This idea of criminal grandeur, such a brilliant mind devoted to chaos rather than to profit, this man of shadow no one ever get close to... _M_ , for monster.”  
“ _M_ for Mycroft,” the boy understood in the blink of an eye.  
“Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, is more credible than Mycroft Holmes, who occupies a minor position in the British government. I am not very surprised that everyone falls for him.”  
He saw Gregory quivering. The night was cold and a soft fog was raising, a pearly mist.  
“What about your brother, Sherlock Holmes?”  
“Ah!” Mycroft bit his lower lip, and dropped his gaze. “Moriarty was meant for him, too, to distract him, to carry him away from my trail. Maybe to teach him a lesson. Naturally, I had not suspected this uncomfortable situation.”  
“Richard Brook?”  
“An actor, a terrific one, let me say. He lied about his employer, but what had been written in the newspapers is absolutely correct for the main part.”  
“He was your brother.”  
The boy seemed more astounded than repelled. He was too busy examining the information, measuring their reliability: there was no time for moral thoughts, but only to understand if Holmes was lying or not – about the key code, the rest was rather irrelevant in the boy’s eyes.  
And Mycroft knew. He smiled, sweetly.  
“Do you know the story of Cain and Abel, don’t you?”  
Mycroft’s did not need to look at Lestrade to know how much loathing and amazement were fighting in him, how he was painfully confused. A simple movement and the boy would have been alarmed.  
“What evidence do you have?” pressed the boy.  
“The key code. It will be yours, for the Detective Inspector’s safety.”  
The game was over. It was matter of minutes – no, _seconds_ , Mycroft corrected himself. He knew the boy’s mind was running towards a decision.  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft called for his attention.  “Don’t give Mr Murray a single reason to hurt you.”  
“Fuck you.”  
 _Predictable_ , Mycroft told himself, while watching the way Lestrade was raising his head, proud.  
“I assure you it is not going to be worse than your last trip to Dartmoor.”  
  
Greg stared at Mycroft Holmes. He did not understand.  
 _What the hell is happening?  
_ Fear of death can poison the judgment of a man and having a gun against his head was not the best condition to think about Mycroft Holmes’s identity, but he was bloody furious at him. And not only about the possibility he really was Jim Moriarty’s creator – in such a case, Lestrade would have hunted him for the rest of his life. _If_ they were both going to live to see a new day.  
 _Damn_ , Holmes looked so self-confident, like he was used to deal on human beings every single day – and that was a realistic point of view, let’s admit it. Holmes was there, composed and controlled, the usual and elegant three-pieces suit under a dark coat. His gaze steady, cold. His shadow unrolling on the ground, like a snake. It was a big, scaring shadow, tentacles made out of darkness were brushing his ankles...Greg shook his head and a cold shiver run down his spine.  
More he looked at Mycroft, more the man seemed frightening and he felt threatened and his shadow, oh, his shadow was devouring everything and the glimmering of his eyes, that, that was digging under his skin and...  
 _And Dartmoor_. He had just reminded him of Dartmoor and...Lestrade understood. _The fog_ , damn, it was the bloody fog!  
The porch light went out. He heard the boy’s voice, reduced to a whimper.  
“What’s that? What? The light...Moriarty!”  
Greg felt his heart running at almost unbearable speed, his head flooded by a dark and viscous tide. _Think, think, think_. Dartmoor. He had to cling to this, not to the way his mind was twisting the reality.  
He launched himself on the ground, on the grass. His hands were damp, wet, wet up to the wrist. He looked at his hands and saw the blood covering them, dark and shining blood. _His_ blood.  
Dead, dead, he was dead, and he already knew, he had to sleep and let fear abandon him, along with life and blood and... _Dartmoor, focus_. Nothing was real, he was alive, he was on the ground, but the boy was fighting too with his demons, with the horror born by the fog.  
Greg’s ears were invaded by the strangest and scariest sounds. Voices, steps, shots, no, it was not a shot, but his mind was full, full ad nauseam. He raised his eyes and looked for the boy. The fog was thicker and in the mist there were shadows moving...but _there!_ , just in front of him. He looked at the boy for the first time. He seemed young and handsome and mortal. His face was tense and shiny, his eyes widened by fear, his grip on the gun no more self-confident, but stiff and inexperienced. Lestrade was on him, suddenly, forcing his weight on the boy and catching him by surprise. The boy fell and Lestrade did too.       
The boy had lost the gun in the collision. Greg searched the ground, but he could not see it and his breath was ragged and hoarse, and then the hands of the boy were on his throat. He tried to free himself from the hold and suddenly the Browning was under his fingers.  
He took it, but the boy noticed it and pushed him away, hitting his stomach and taking his breath away. Bent on the grass, coughing, Greg did not see the kick coming. He stifled a cry, while the boy was forcing him to the ground, trying to block him with his body.  
He was monstrous, the boy.  
Lestrade saw his tiny sharp teeth between open lips, tainted with blood. He saw his deformed body, towering above him, choking him, killing him. He wasn’t even human, he was a monster, a monster, a monster with _M_... _Dartmoor, keep hold of_ _Dartmoor_!  
The boy had the Browning and yet he was trembling at each sound. Greg tried to shake him off, but the boy hit his face with the stock. While the pain was almost blinding him, Lestrade sensed the weight of the boy fading and then disappearing.  
He rose on his feet, quickly, his head buzzing but the Browning in his hand. He covered his mouth and his nose with the collar of his coat.  
He had lost sight of the boy, again. God, it was dark. The moon was swallowed by the clouds, the house silent and mysterious like a _menhir_. Where was Mycroft? He moved blindly: he almost screamed when he found himself next to the headless statue, made monstrous by the fog.  
 _Dartmoor, Dartmoor_. He was repeating it to himself like a mantra, chewing it slowly. He felt the taste of blood in his mouth – he had bitten his tongue.  
He had to find Mycroft. And the boy, he had to find both of them.  
Protect the first, defeat the second. Like a brave knight in his armour.  
While he was looking for Mycroft, he found Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Thin, so thin he seemed about to vanish in the mist, his face lined and pale like a skull, the skin stretched on the cheekbones like ready to break at anytime. And those eyes – god, those eyes were burning, searching, searching.  
He looked to Greg like a bad omen, the last of the revenants, the living dead.            
“Sherlock!” he burst out.  
The ghost jumped and he feared he was about to dissolve. But he did not: he turned. Their eyes met for a moment – the dead and the one who had to die soon, because his body was shaking, and one single stroke of the wings of the creature would have been enough to shatter his bones, each one of them.  
Greg took his head in his hands. He tapped his forehead with the Browning.  
 _Dartmoor, remember_ : _Sherlock is dead and he is not there to claim your life.  
_ He had to look out for the living, the living, _I’m alive and Mycroft must be too. He must_. Where?  
The ghost had gone away. Lestrade rubbed his eyes. He was confused and his mind was slipping from reality to imaginary, twisted and confused. His senses were high, every single stimulus tickled the pain threshold and released nightmares.  
“The key code. Now!”  
He hung on the boy’s voice, the urgency of saving a life made him more focused despite of the drug still running in his body. The boy, although shaken by the fog, had not forgotten the reason for him to be here – the key code was the only important and real thing among the ghosts.  
He was a dreadful animal, the boy, his teeth uncovered while he was hissing his requests, his gun aimed to Mycroft Holmes’s chest, his body tense like a bow ready to dart the mortal stroke.  
The Detective Inspector raised his gun, held his breath and pulled the trigger.  
The sound of the shot sent a sting to his brain, but his arms stood still and stretched while the boy was collapsing to the ground. Then he saw Holmes coming – oh, Mycroft Holmes was _running_. He knew how much wonderful it was, but his legs betrayed him and he fell down. He was on his hands and knees, the roaring of the shot still reverberating through his brain folds, nausea rising in his body, soft ground beneath his fingers.  
Then Mycroft was at his side and talking about something. He did not understand.  
He felt the weight of his hand on his shoulder, but he shook him off. Mycroft insisted. Now he had disclosed his right hand under Lestrade’s eyes. In the palm, Greg saw a little pill: fear came back in waves.  
 _M for Mycroft, M for Moriarty, M for Murder_. Forced suicide, he had already heard of it...  
 _No, no, no_ , he chanted, slightly, trying to coordinate his movements, crawling away.  
Mycroft’s hand plunged in his hair, grabbed his head. Greg’s lips opened in a moan, while the fingers were scratching his nape. The other hand pushed the pill into his mouth, before he could close it.  
Mycroft’s hand pressed on his lips and nose, almost choking him, stopping him from spitting the pill. And the pill begun to melt on his tongue, lightly sparkling and bitter. Slowly, Holmes’s hands released him. Greg filled his lungs and felt the soft ache on his face and head.  
He slipped on the ground, while the buzzing was muffling and then disappeared.  
Holmes was again on his feet and he was watching him.  
The pill had dissolved in his mouth and he sensed the metallic shadow of blood on a little bite inside his cheek. He blinked, once, twice, and he noticed how his senses seemed... _calmer_. Not anymore vulnerable to the smallest stimulus.  
He took a look at Mycroft and saw him busy clearing up his elegant coat. He had messy hair.  
Greg grinned and sit on the ground.  
“The boy?” he asked, cautiously. His voice was still awkward, but dignified.  
 _Christ_ , had he really whined like a schoolboy few moments ago? He licked his lips.  
“Dead,” Mycroft answered. “A single shot to the head: my respects for your excellent aim, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
Greg made a face, while raising on his foot. He was sore and still stunned, but the worst seemed over.  
“I didn’t take aim for the head,” he admitted, and pulled the trigger guard of the Browning.  
“Ah.”  
“I just wanted to stop him.”  
“Yes, _obviously_. Can you walk?” Mycroft asked, observing him from head to foot.  
Greg nodded and let the man lead him to the boy’s corpse.  
Holmes carried a small electric torch and the light caught the wilted shape of the boy. It had been a quick death: the shot had reached his right temple and there was no trace of surprise nor fear on his face. Stiffly, Lestrade crouched next to the boy. He took his pulse, then forced the gun out of his fingers. He did not know how much time Holmes had needed to make him take the pill – little, he thought. He put the gun on the grass. Then, he raised his eyes on Mycroft.  
He found him watching the corpse – like the boy, he was not surprised nor scared.  
“What do you want to do?” Greg asked, quietly.  
He well knew that calling the police was not an option.  
Too much explanations required, and nothing was clear in his mind. Lestrade was not even sure who could have claimed that body. The local police? Or Scotland Yard, considering the boy had been killed by one of their _suspended_ DIs?  
“ _In the pond_ ,” replied Holmes, right away.  
As a cop, he should have not taken part in the concealment of a corpse, but, after all, neither he should have led an unauthorized investigation. The pond was the easier solution.  
He searched the body, methodically. He did not examine what he had found, he just put all away in his pockets – documents, a knife...He took the other gun. Holmes was waiting. When Lestrade caught the boy under his armpit, he was surprised by the modest weight of the body.  
“How much deep is it?” he asked, at the end of the pier. “Maybe we must make it heavier with stones.”  
“It’s going to sink,” Mycroft assured him, neatly.  
Greg thought better not to ask aloud how Mycroft could have gained this idea: if the bottom of the pond was covered in corpses, it would be better to be informed later, with a glass of scotch in his hand. Without further delay, he pushed the body into the waters. The body immediately went down: few seconds later, it was over. There was only a stripe of blood on the pier. Greg checked his clothes and he was relieved to discover he had not stained them. Going back to London and meeting John Watson in blood-covered clothes was not his plan.  
 _I should call John_ , he reminded himself. But another thought got him.  
He rubbed the back of his hand on his mouth and nose, then he tilted his head to shoot a glance to Mycroft Holmes.  
“Can I ask you why are you here?” he asked, more briskly than he had intended to do.  
He was not angry, but he was able to think about many reasons for being so.  
“I should ask you the same question, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft answered, haughtily, “considering you’re actually on a ground I own.”  
And he turned his back. Greg stood still for a moment, breathed something between his teeth and stepped forward, because he did not want to be abandoned like an idiot. When he was again at Mycroft’s side, he spoke again.  
“Is this your home, then?”  
“My mother’s, to be precise,” specified Mycroft, without looking at him. “I’m the administrator and fifteen years had passed since the last time my mother had been here. So I believe I have a right to ask you the reason of your presence here. A part from the _obvious_ gun at your head.”  
They were under the stone porch of the cottage. Greg leaned against one of the pillar and felt his discomfort slightly raising. He cleared his throat, lowered his eyelids.  
“By the way...thank you for saving my life,” he murmured, uncertain at first but then more and more sincere. He openly smiled, without trying to repress the simple gratefulness for being alive.  
Mycroft watched him, with mild curiosity, like Lestrade was the specimen of a strange, maybe a little dangerous, kind of men.  
“You have saved mine. The debt is paid, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
Mycroft’s words spoke the truth, but Greg was annoyed. Should Holmes always try to control anything, even his gratitude?  
“Does it mean I’m not allowed to ask you few questions?” Lestrade asked, ironically.  
“On the contrary, I’ll be pleased to explain you the details and I’m sure you’ll be so kind to return my courtesy, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft retorted, opening the cottage door, “but, please, make me the honour of your presence in my humble home before I see you faint on my steps.”  
It was then, in Mycroft’s voice, that Greg realized he was really about to break down.  
It was not only his aching and chilled body, it was the boy’s corpse at the bottom of the pond, it was Sherlock Holmes appearing to him in the poisonous mist, it was also Mycroft, with his quiet and posh voice, able to manipulate reality. And the fact he was too old and too stupid to have risked to die without knowing he would have died on Mycroft Holmes’s bloody ground.  
His heart was still beating too fast.  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
He forced himself to move forward, one step, another step, then he was beyond the threshold of the cottage.  
“Can you climb the stairs?” Holmes asked. Greg nodded.  
He let Mycroft take control. After all, handling crisis was his special ability and - he had to admit it – he was really, really _good_. Holmes led him up the stairs, in the silent, empty house, switching on and off the lights while they were passing. Lestrade noticed only details: the gloomy stroke of a pendulum he didn’t see; the portrait hung at the top of the stairs – a woman whose great beauty not Sherlock nor Mycroft had inherited; closed doors whose contents his host didn’t reveal.  
Instead, he got him to a room.  
Greg did not see much of it, at the moment, apart from the pale halo – more shadows than light, that the night casted on the window glass. Then he felt Mycroft’s hand on his back, almost at the centre of it, where the gun of the boy had been pressed.  
Lestrade let himself be guided towards the dark shape of an armchair. He took off his coat, with slow and clumsy movements. He put the guns on the writing desk under the window. When he turned, Mycroft was not there anymore: Greg just sit down and closed his eyes.  
When he opened them again, Mycroft was back. The room was filled with the soft light coming from a little night-lamp – the only gracious touch in a space otherwise anonymous, as guest rooms usually are. The host was pouring his drink – scotch, like at the Diogenes. Mycroft gave him his glass and Greg started to drink slowly. His stomach tensed a little, but the scotch burned the cold in his bones.  
In the meantime, Mycroft disappeared behind a second door, carrying a bundle with him. Lestrade saw the candour of ceramic – a sink, and understood that Mycroft had just brought a change of towels for the little private bathroom.  
He was clearly in an alternative universe where British government takes care of providing clean towels for his guests.  
“I hope you feel better enough to explain me few aspects of what happened, Detective Inspector,” announced Holmes, on his return. Truth was, Greg would have liked very much going to sleep, but he guessed it was not an option.  
Mycroft took a seat on the other armchair, crossed his legs and then intertwined his long, elegant, fingers.  
“The fog...the drug created by Dr Frankland?” asked Lestrade, his voice steady.  
It was Mycroft Holmes’s house, he had saved his life, and sure he was drinking _his_ scotch...but he had not the slightest intention of submitting to an interrogation. _He_ was the DI. He saw the disappointment on Mycroft’s face and his gaze became more stubborn. The other man, although annoyed, gave up.  
“After what happened at Dartmoor, and that little fuss provoked by Sherlock at Baskerville, I could not help but being interested in Dr Frankland’s studies. His work is not going be wasted, despite the little amount of information he left...it seems he was used to keep in his memory the fundamental data. However, perseverance rarely fails to reward: we are not far from a product matching Dr Frankland’s wildest dreams.”  
Greg had to remind himself to swallow his scotch.  
Mycroft had just revealed him, lightly, that the British government was busy financing a dreadful research. _Another of Mycroft’s secret_ – and Lestrade was involved, willingly or not. Greg knew in his heart he was not going to betray him, but he was annoyed nonetheless.  
“Do you usually keep a convenient amount of drug in your pocket?” – he asked.  
“I have been at Baskerville, lately,” the other man replied, slightly vague. “It was fortunate that I decided to test its effects personally.”  
Greg frowned. He wondered if someone had really thought to trust Mycroft with an amount of drug or, more realistically, the man had obtained it by deception or blackmail.  
“And how...how did you...”  
“The irrigation system of the garden.”  
“Ah. Does it mean you were expecting troubles?” Greg inquired, sensing there was something wrong. Mycroft was quiet, he had no hesitation. _But_...  
“As I have told you, I intended to make some _experiments_. This house is enough isolated to guarantee a kind of...discretion and peace. So I assumed the habit of taking refuge here, when my duty permits.”  
 _Experiments_. Right, Lestrade remembered the same inclination to experimentation had peculiarly filled the fridge of 221B, Baker Street.  
“And the pill?”  
“Oh, we are incredibly proud about it,” Mycroft admitted, giving away a bit of sincere enthusiasm in his blue eyes. “Obviously, it’s an antidote, but his efficacy is also a preventive one, as my conditions should have already suggested to you.”  
Greg did not spoke. He had not thought, at the moment, how Mycroft Holmes had been unaffected by the drug: it looked obvious that the man was able to keep control of the situation, in the middle of anguish and danger. Unlike him.  
“Without the diversion, I don’t know where I would have been now,” he confessed.  
“Well, let’s talk about how you put your life at stake, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” replied the host, suddenly cold. Oh, no, he hadn’t forgotten the way Lestrade had tried to drive the conversation. And Greg understood he was about to pay in full.  
“I thought you have already deduced everything looking at me.”  
It had not been Greg’s intention to challenge Mycroft. But he hated how carefully Mycroft had chosen words implying he had been reckless. Being this a truthful account of the events did not reduce Lestrade’s annoyance. It sharpened it.   
For a moment, he thought Mycroft Holmes was about to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he half-closed his eyelids and begun to speak.  
"In the garden, when I found you hostage, I did not see wounds, ripped clothes or blood traces. It’s improbable you fought with the boy. So the time you spent as hostage had been a little one, and short the way you two walked together: more the time and the space an hostage and his kidnapper share, more the possibilities of...casualties. Then I believe you arrived here in your car, following the boy. It’s very clear, considering the surveillance had been your idea since the very moment you had looked at me for information, and more obvious looking upon your plain surprise at my sight. You hadn’t expected to find me here, so you had not the slightest idea about the destination...you had followed the boy and not the contrary. The boy was acquainted with my habit of taking refuge here and he thought probable I had the key code, after Sherlock’s death and Moriarty’s disappearance. Wrong idea, although a very realistic one. Going back to your troubles, I can discard the hypothesis that you were kept as hostage all the way here from London: your wrists aren’t scratched, sign you had not been tied or cuffed.  And this is the kind of precaution the boy would have not neglected, if he had to bring you with him. Therefore the _rendezvous_ had been very near this house. I say...at its gates? I notice on your coat the same chalk marks that were on the boy’s clothes, from the climbing of the fence; the boy first, and he had waited for you on the other side, hidden. His self-confidence about this let me believe the boy had been completely conscious of being followed. You two didn’t fight, so the boy was several steps ahead on you and he had had the time to thought carefully about your role in his plan. On the contrary, if he had been really surprised by your entrance, you would have been dead. _It’s not over yet_ ,” he made clear, coldly, when he caught a little suggestion of defiance from Lestrade. “Let me focus on you, Detective Inspector. Let me try to understand how you could have put your life at such a risk. The deepness of the shadows under your eyes, the redness of your eyelids, the heaviness of your body and the state of your clothes suggest at least three days on surveillance. Even your posture on the armchair is enough to tell me how many hours you spent in your car waiting for... _a tip off_ , maybe? We both knew well you’re alone, without a team of brave Yarders. The only help you can count upon is Dr Watson. No microphone, no cams, your only chance to control the boy’s movement was more traditional: you had corrupted or convinced someone at the Savoy to get information and you took the chance to follow the boy. For a moment, and I don’t want to underestimate you thinking otherwise, you _must_ have thought about the huge danger. But you couldn’t stop. _Why?_ Oh, I can see. _For loneliness_. You know you’re an outsider now, far from your darling Yarders, isolated like a rabid dog; Watson is so deep in his pain to be unreachable. You have no sons, neither a wife now. You know you’re alone and alone you wanted to act: there’s even something _romantic_ about your image of lone hero, a king without a kingdom still fighting for his crown,” whispered Mycroft, with a soft voice which tied Greg to his armchair. “ _For duty_. You’re a cop, it’s in your blood, something you cannot stop yourself from being, a life condition, a faith. You are unable of thinking yourself as a civilian and once you were on the right trail, there was nothing to induce you to turn your back. _For loyalty_. You could not go back to John Watson without knowing you had tried your best, could you? _For atonement_. You arrested Sherlock and now you believe you have to sacrifice something of your security in exchange for the truth. It does not matter if others are worse than you, neither if your doubts were fair and your position at Scotland Yard was difficult; you have a sense of responsibility closer to masochism. _For you’re brave_. You are so brave you doesn’t even know it. You don’t like danger nor fear, but you can’t simply step back. How did you learn to swim, Detective Inspector Lestrade? Launching yourself in the waters, alone, your eyes well closed, forced to dare because you were so scared of being unable to? How much _overconfidence_ in you humility...” and Mycroft shook his head “...how much despair at being even too brilliant for not knowing the risks and yet deciding to embrace them. _Does your life count so little to you?_ ”


	8. Humanity and Beauty

Greg was frozen, his breath taken away, his cheeks burning.  
He had foreseen this: although with much more words any other human being would have used, Mycroft Holmes had just invited him to fuck off. But it was more than that, more than the spiteful reaction of a provoked man. It was the methodical ferocity that Mycroft used to remind him of his power - power of baring the Detective Inspector Lestrade anytime he wished.  
And Greg felt this deep, deep shame closing his stomach, choking him. He wanted to stand up and go, but his legs refused to move.  
Mycroft had drawn his hands under his chin, watching him. He probably guessed his intentions, because he raised his head and made a wave with his hand, to stop the rush threatening to sweep away Lestrade from the house.  
“There is something I don’t understand,” Mycroft whispered, suddenly.  
Greg knew he wasn’t lying: his annoyance at his own confession was real and concrete, even if this was also an attempt to make him stay.  
He only nodded. I’m listening.  
“Why don’t you believe I could be Moriarty? It is a realistic hypothesis and I saw your doubts while we were in the garden, but not anymore, not now. You did not hesitate to defend me from the boy and you seem to have already decided I’m not Moriarty’s puppeteer. Or you wouldn’t be here, drinking my scotch.”  
“We have already checked my unsatisfying survival instinct,” Greg replied, with bitter irony.  
 Mycroft tilted his head, becoming sullen.  
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said, a soft hiss of reproach in the depth of his voice.  
“I don’t know...truly, I don’t know,” he answered then, a hand through his hair and a confused look about him. “Maybe because there must be something to trust. And I decided to believe even you couldn’t be so inhuman.”  
Mycroft slowly blinked.  
The silence was almost unbearable before he opened his mouth again.  
“The lack of humanity is a requirement of my job. Some choices are simply impossible for a human being: I need to think above the human, above the individual, to choose,” he explained, frowning. “Humanity, on the contrary, is the kind of weakness able to damage a whole system and, in my job, a stain too soon visible to everyone, the weapon my enemies are waiting for.”  
Holmes’s eyes were no more fixed on the DI: they fell on the corner of the room not enlightened by the night lamp.  
“When I was young and I had just looked up to the world I now belong to, there were days when I prayed for something...someone keeping me human. Something or someone able to preserve my humanity, to protect it, waiting for the moment when, my work done, I would have wanted it back.”  
 “Humanity can’t be switched on and off,” Greg protested, softly.  
“It could be the reason why I have never found this something, or someone,” Mycroft agreed, with a slight nod.  
Greg was surprised. He knew Holmes was not bound to tell him anything about this: it was an odd way to make amends, or restoring the balance. He had exposed Lestrade’s emotions and motives: he returned it with a small part of himself.  
Why?  
Greg Lestrade was not sure – it was not the kind of thing someone could ever be sure about. But, nonetheless, he could not ignore it completely; it was just the way they were studying each other, wary like wild beasts, but also the soft languor opening in his stomach. He was waiting. What was the last time he had waited something with the same mix of fear and impatience?  
Mycroft got up. It was an abrupt move, but soon softened by the elegant pace with whom he reached his armchair. Greg stood still and suddenly Mycroft’s fingers were on his cheek. The pain caught him by surprise. He took away his head and, in the corner of his eye, he saw how Holmes’s fingers, clenching in a fist for a moment, were trying again to brush the point where the boy had hit him with the stock of the gun.  
Greg had completely forgotten it. He got back his memory while Mycroft’s fingers – oh, only the tips, only the lukewarm fingertips and the neat fingernails – were grazing his swollen cheekbone, slipping on the peeled skin, on the small traces of dried blood.  
He raised his eyes, but Mycroft’s gaze didn’t meet his, neither when his hand gently closed on his cheek and Greg sensed the light impression of his palm and then the graceful pressure of the thumb just at the corner of his lips. He opened them, instinctively, but soon he closed his mouth again, to suffocate the gasp when the other hand settled on his thigh.  
What was surprising was the absolute easiness about Mycroft conquering space on his body, the nonchalance of closing his right hand a little above his knee. He was bent over him, but not enough to be unable to draw back whenever he wished.  
He could not see Mycroft’s face, not without raising his head and freeing himself from the kind touch on his cheek; he saw, instead, the flawless tie knot, and he was hit by the idea it must have been the result of the same efficiency, the same wisdom of gestures: not caresses, but chess moves.  
And he was losing ground. He understood it when he reminded himself to breath and his chest swelled, then his blood seemed thicker, his loins burning, and he realized he had an erection. Greg opened his eyes wide and blinked quickly. He felt the rasping of the trousers on his groin, and the discomfort, still light but promising to grow fast.  
He was embarrassed by the readiness of his body, that was preceding his mind on grounds whose existence he had not yet accepted. Was it so easy? His body was such an easy instrument to barely need the pressure of a hand on his thigh, or was it Holmes’s higher conscience, knowing well how to strike the right chord?  
He stood frozen, frightened by himself, frightened by the possibility that Mycroft could keep going and, at the same time, by the possibility that he could stop. The pressure on his thigh disappeared, Mycroft’s hand flew to the buckle of his belt, half-hidden by the jacket. Greg saw him hesitating – no, he was not: he was lingering. Then came the sudden acceleration of moves, the sliding of the dark leather through the buckle, his jacket opening in the turmoil. For a moment, almost a mistake, Holmes’s knuckles touched his belly, leaving a feeling of emptiness in his stomach.  
Mycroft’s palm was soft, warm – for no logical reason he had always imagined him as one of those men whose hands are constantly cold. He was about to change his mind, now, while Mycroft’s right hand was closing on his cock, moving a little, tearing out a of him a sight that immediately made Greg ashamed of himself.  
There was something very careful about Mycroft’s movements, like he was busy measuring his reaction, examining how much he had to offer. Even if this could not undermine the enthusiasm of his body, Greg was shy: he hated being under examination.  
Because of this, and because of the way Mycroft’s long fingers were stroking the whole length of his cock, he abruptly raised his hips, pushing against the caresses before drawing back. Just to remind that, well, he was actually there: Holmes could not just ignore him.  
For a moment, Holmes seemed really surprised by the news, because he went still and Greg just could not stop himself from biting his lower lip.  
Suddenly, the hand which had been on his cheek slipped down, rubbing slightly on his unshaven chin, on the opened collar of his white shirt, until it stopped more or less at the middle of his chest. But Holmes’s whole body had got down, because unexpectedly Greg saw him on his knees before him and after a moment he saw nothing more, because Mycroft had taken his cock in his mouth and Greg had closed his eyes, so tightly there were coloured flashes in the darkness of his shut eyelids.  
His head hit the back of the armchair and he opened again his eyes. God. He was looking for something in his mind, a coherent thought, a trace of logic, but everything was melting in the warmth spreading from his groin. Greg lowered his gaze, only to be astounded by the unreality of the situation: he clearly saw, in the soft light, Mycroft’s head, the paleness of his forehead, the hair thinning out, even the mole on the cheekbone. He felt perfectly – oh, too much perfectly!, the little movements of the tongue, and those light adjustments needed for his cock to be driven deeper into the mouth. It is not happening.  
Then Mycroft’s lips started sliding along his cock, sucking away every traces of sobriety from Lestrade’s mind. When the man’s teeth gently brushed against the stretched skin, Greg let out a low and hoarse moan – a voice he did not even remember he had. While Mycroft’s mouth was trapping him, Greg’s eyes fell on the hand on his own chest.  
And he realized Mycroft had made himself sure to gather his fingers just on his heart. While his lips kept exploring Greg’s cock, while he was playing unnameable and delicious tricks with his damned tongue, he had taken care of having a direct grasp on Lestrade’s heartbeat, and on his breath.  
The feeling of possess pouring out from this made Greg feel dizzy; it was like nothing of his desire, nothing of his pleasure, could be hidden from Mycroft, from his mouth, his fingers, his mind. And from his eyes, suddenly meeting Greg’s.  
There was a sparkle in Mycroft’s blue eyes and Greg was sure his thoughts were uncovered too, revealed in the expression on his face. Mycroft’s lips were still dreadfully close to the tip of his cock and a little movement was all that was needed, just a little...he had to ask, but he didn’t know how. Please?  
Just before need forced him to implore, Mycroft closed again his mouth on him and Lestrade had to hold onto his shoulder, clawing his jacket and then closing his fingers on the man’s nape. No, it was not the need of touching Mycroft, not more than the mere need of a grip, the same instinct that made the DI’s other hand grasping the armchair. He was not even going to remember the gesture.  
But now Greg’s fingers were closed on Mycroft’s nape and Mycroft’s lips shut on his member and his heart caged under his ribs, over his ribs Mycroft’s fingers. At every breath – each one shorter than the last – he remembered the light weight of the hand on his chest and it seemed the only thing stopping his heart from leaping out of his ribs, too much the urgency it was running with.  
His body tensed, his hips slightly jumped and Greg threw back his head, with a sudden move able to tear out a low moan from his mouth. Every thought was swept away by the roughness of his climax, and all of his body seemed to flow down, thickening on his groin...and then vanishing, melting in the depths of pleasure, down the throat of Mycroft Holmes, the British government.      
He wetted his lips, which were dry. His heartbeat was still fast, as his breath, but they were both going back, slowly, to the usual rhythm. He closed his eyes. He knew he had not endured much; it was a lot since the last time he had had some kind of sexual intercourse, and he was about to turn forty-nine and Holmes, well, Holmes had apparently taken classes, there’s no other reason...the inconsistency of his thoughts made perfectly logic the sight of Mycroft, again on his feet and cleaning his lips with a handkerchief.  
Mycroft was watching him.  
His hand run through his hair and then on his clothes, restoring the order over the disorder in few precise movements. He looked completely at ease: nothing betrayed how, until a moment ago, he was practising oral sex – first-rate oral sex, Lestrade admitted – to a Scotland Yard DI. Greg, on the other side, knew he was in an embarrassing state: his cheekbone livid and painful, his clothes crumpled, sunk in the armchair with his cock, now soft and wet, still out of his trousers.  
When Holmes moved again, slipping to the side of the armchair, Greg turned his head, without losing sight of him. The words were still deserting him and he half-closed his eyes, while Mycroft’s fingers were running on his heated face, on his damp forehead, then plunging into his hair. He lightly relaxed under those caresses, less rough, less...neat.  
Greg understood what was boiling deep in Mycroft’s blue eyes – need.  
The discover filled him of unexpected enthusiasm, and the enthusiasm made him bolder: he lowered his eyes on the other man’s groin. He felt Mycroft’s fingers stopped from caressing his hair and, suddenly, Holmes was opening his trousers.  
Greg’s eyes widened, but he stood still: Mycroft’s cock was longer than his, but more slender – Greg peered at it with light suspicion. Mycroft’s fingers made a cautious attempt of moving again through his hair, recovering the unfinished caress, but eventually he gave up, his fingers trembling and closing on Lestrade’s nape.  
Greg shot a glance to Mycroft’s face and found something swinging between resentment and sarcasm. Who was going to be the subject of his taunt? My hesitation or himself, at the mercy of the choices of Gregory Lestrade, the not really brilliant Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard?  
Greg decided that, after all, it did not matter. He wrapped his fingers on Mycroft’s cock. Lestrade was not grateful – yeah, Mycroft Holmes had given him a blowjob, but this was hardly the point. And it wasn’t either – Christ, I hope so – that bloody pill Mycroft had given him as antidote. He let his fingers run slowly, surprised by how tender was the skin and how hard the muscle underneath.  
It was...different – a stupid remark even from you, DI Lestrade, he registered, mechanically. He closed his eyes, focusing on the taste he was just collecting on his lips, then on the tip of his tongue. He breathed slowly, a bit confused by how much different was the smell of a male from that he had learned on women’s bodies.  
Greg took it in his mouth, with cautious slowness. He sensed Mycroft’s nails scratching his nape, but his hips stood perfectly still. By recent experience, he knew how difficult it was to control the temptation of pushing deeper. He went on and Holmes gave a hoarse sight, which made Greg proud. So, there it was: not a submission act, nothing distasteful or gross, but the chance of baring Mycroft, slipping under the elegant clothes, the polite manners, and beyond the steel; revealing the flesh and the blood and the man.  
Giving pleasure, and gaining power in return. Greg sucked slightly his breath and he felt Mycroft’s member quivering in his mouth. More. He moved his head, running a bit forward and then going back and then from the start, until Mycroft’s fingers tugged at his hair, forcing him to move away his head and gave a groan. He opened his eyes full, surprised.  
For a moment, he was back in the garden, fighting against the pill.  
“Enough, Gregory.”  
His protest were smothered not by the firm hold on his head, nor by the cold voice: he shut up because Mycroft Holmes knew his name.  
Greg was astounded, his lips wet and flushed. He closed his mouth when Mycroft’s hand let go of his head and the man moved away. He saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, letting himself coiled in the golden light of the night lamp.  
And then Mycroft began to undress. He pulled out the pocket watch from his waistcoat and put it under the night lamp. He removed his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat – the pale fingers were flowing from one button to another. There was not, in Mycroft’s moves, the lingering of seduction, but only a quiet efficiency, an elegance and a smoothness which came from habit and not for the sake of performance. Lestrade stood silent.  
Mycroft rose to put the waistcoat and the jacket on the chair next the desk, before going back to sit on the bed. Greg spied the absolute carefulness Holmes used to handle every single part of his clothing. He wondered if he would have done the same if he had clothes worth his month salary.  
Mycroft had removed his shoes and was aligning them next to the bed. He lowered his trousers, showing his long legs with prominent knees and milky calves. Then he took off the underpants, and it was a move a little quicker than the previous ones: Greg noticed that, in spite of the calmness of his gestures, Mycroft was not satisfied. He watched him freeing himself from the tie, removing the cuff links and put them next to the pocket watch. He shelled each button from its hole and then he stripped of the shirt too, eventually naked on the edge of the double bed.  
Mycroft’s arms were snow-white, suffused with freckles, long and nervous like his legs; his hips betrayed a slight softness, the tender echo survived after years of strict diet. His chest and the top of his shoulders, his naked legs and his head were licked by the warm light of the night lamp, but his back caught the colder glimmer seeping through the window, tracing dim shadows – the embroidery of vertebras beneath the skin soaked in silver light.  
There was, in Mycroft’s nakedness, a touching vulnerability.  
It was like the sight of a chrysalis, or the first snow. Greg felt that sight moving something inside him, something that was not just arousal – not of the body: his member was not ready for another ride. It was something different, something able to close his stomach and his throat while he was watching Mycroft Holmes’s ungraceful body.  
Greg understood it was beauty and it was hurting him.  
Almost with rage, he started to strip, without order nor rigour. He took off his jacket and shirt, he shortly fought with the undershirt, for a moment trapped in white cotton. When he was free, his hair were more ruffled than ever and his face flustered. He lowered the trousers down to his ankles, along with the underpants, but he had forgotten he had still his shoes on. He swore through his teeth and kicked them away, keeping balance on one foot and then on the other to take off the trousers.  
He kept the socks, however, because the room was a little too cold. Then he raised his head and saw Mycroft watching him, his head cocked on the side. His face did not betray but a mild curiosity, but the eyes...oh, Greg trembled slightly and felt his cheek burning while he was approaching the bed, clumsy and impatient like a teenager.  
When he was before Holmes, he realized he did not know exactly what to do.  
He suddenly remembered his body had lost the appeal of youth, and the quickness of reflex, he had put on weight and he was greying, signed from head to foot by the erratic and stressful life he led.  
But eventually Mycroft’s hands closed on his hips and Greg relaxed under the soft touch, letting the man’s fingers exploring his flesh. He felt the fingertips drawing the scar of the appendix removed when he was a child and then going up to the ribs, touching the bruises left by the boy. They were red and blue and aching at touch, and Lestrade did not miss the dark frown appeared on Mycroft’s face at this sight.  
On his other side, Holmes’s hand found out the scar of the bullet from a gunfight with some drug dealers, and the older trace of a stab from a riot. He had been very lucky, both times.  
The fingers slipped on his back, and Lestrade instinctively stepped forward. Mycroft’s mouth leaned on the fold between the belly and the thigh, brushing the tender skin until he had found the point where it was stretched over the hip bone. Mycroft sucked slightly the skin between his lips, and his right hand cupped one of Greg’s buttocks. Greg froze when Holmes started to draw the cheek, but he was distracted and tamed by the sweetness of the tongue tickling his skin.  
He closed his eyes, torn between the weariness of his mind and the recklessness of the body, between the way Mycroft’s caresses made him watchful and fearful, and the desire of giving up to his mouth, letting himself sinking in satiety and unconsciousness. Greg bit his lips when the tip of Mycroft’s index slipped between his cheeks. Only when he heard Mycroft’s groan of surprise and pain, did he see he had gripped with too much force his shoulder.  
He sensed Mycroft’s breath, shorter and tenser, against his thigh. Greg loosened the hold and moved cautiously his fingers, brushing the thumbs at the base of Mycroft’s neck, becoming familiar with the skin consistency, with the warm rising from it. He felt his own body relaxing and Mycroft did too, because he returned to move his index, until the nail scraped the border of his hole: Greg let out a hoarse moan and his gaze lose focus.  
Greg suddenly realised there was going to be more. The thought had stayed in the back of his conscience, but now he knew Mycroft was going to take him on that bed – with his full consent.  
Suddenly, Mycroft was on his foot, without losing hold on his buttocks, in fact using it to press their bodies together. The contact was electrifying. The memory of Mycroft’s body, as he had seen it suspended in the light of the night lamp and the glimmer of night, was poison to Greg’s mind and forced him to run his hands, his stubby and rough hands, everywhere he was able to. Like he was blind – he was wandering in the dark, still excluded from the mysteries of Mycroft’s body, from the secret of the desire it had started.  
And Holmes was already slipping away, pushing him aside, and Greg just caught a short glimpse of white limbs and blue eyes, before feeling the man’s hand on his back – a different version of the gesture that had guided him in the room. He understood, without knowing how, what Mycroft was asking for.  
He climbed on the bed on his knees and then lowered himself on his hands. He felt ridiculous, but things improved when he sensed the freshness of the pillow Mycroft had just moved under his belly, and then his fingers caressing his back. He relaxed, leaning on the pillow and casting a side-long glance at Holmes.  
He found him busy spreading his fingers with lube – and the surprise paralysed Lestrade.  
It could not be a courtesy included in the guest rooms of the cottage – could it be? No, he had brought it in the room along with the scotch and the towels. He would have thought it funny, on another occasion, but he was annoyed: obviously, Mycroft had planned his seduction – and this would have been flattering, if it had not betrayed also Mycroft’s confidence in his own success.  
Before Greg had the time to decide how to react, Mycroft’s fingers were back on his body. There was the coolness of gel, then the painful sting of the first intrusion. A low and rough sound escaped Greg’s throat and Mycroft’s other hand leaned at the bottom of his back, with opened fingers and warm palm. While his index gained ground, slow but stubborn, his hand was drawing caresses in a circular, continuous movement – soothing.  
Lestrade wondered if also those reassuring caresses were part of the plan; then the pressure of a second finger at the entrance of his body took away his breath and his lucidity.  
He felt Mycroft’s fingers shifting cautiously, pushing and pressing, giving him time to adjust, but always moving forward the limit. It was a chase, and Mycroft was obstinate and kind, and Greg was trembling – because, after all, obstinacy and kindness were much of what needed to get the DI’s attention.  
After who knows how many circles drew by Holmes’s hand on his back; after his mouth invaded by the rusty taste of his own blood, because he had bitten the hollow of his cheek when Mycroft had touched something, inside his body; after rubbing his face on the blanket, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth looking for relief; after, Mycroft penetrated him.  
Greg was suffocated by the strangeness of the intrusion, more than by the pain; and by the contradictions of those completely new feelings, that still kept him swaying between pleasure and repulsion. And by the weight of Mycroft’s body, so discreet to be unbearable.  
Mycroft was hardly touching him – the bare minimum: a hand low on his side, the other on his back and sometimes the pressure of the legs on his, almost a mistake. But inside, oh god, inside he was touching and filling him in a way that was destroying all Greg knew about his own body and his own desires. Mycroft was reshaping them at each thrust.  
When, eventually, Mycroft’s pelvis brushed against his buttocks, Greg was on the edge of the abyss. He was grateful there were Mycroft’s hands holding him, his body finally closed on his, and his forehead pressed between his shoulder blades. He sensed the man’s fingers moving below their bodies and closing on his cock, which was already stiffening. There was no need for more than two sharp and firm strokes: it went back to an almost painful state of tension.  
Greg clutched at the blankets while lowering his shoulders and Mycroft’s teeth were scraping the relief of a vertebra, and his caresses rhyming with his thrusts, and they were both on the edge, and the edge was thinner and fearful and unbearable and...and then his body slipped beyond the peak, his cock jerked in Mycroft’s hand and Greg came on the blankets and the pillow.  
He noticed Mycroft had reached the orgasm too, but it was a feeble knowledge, somehow faded – despite the warmth exploding in his body, the arrogance of the last thrusts and then the erratic pace of the ones consuming the last energies.  
Greg collapsed on the bed, overcome by tiredness: his body was so satisfied it hurt, there was a humming in his ears, and he did not want to open his eyes.  
Holmes backed out, and Greg barely grunted, feeling empty, consumed up to the heart.


	9. Welcome Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

The light pouring from the bathroom forced Greg to open his eyes. For a moment, he saw Mycroft’s silhouette against the light, then the man closed the door behind him. Holmes eventually came back and Greg rose from the bed, without thinking.  
Mycroft frowned and gave him a curious glance, as he was just realizing Greg’s presence.  
The unpleasantness of the gaze, along with the dull pain of sitting up, pushed Lestrade on his feet and then in the bathroom, with the urgency of a retreat. He could breath easily only when the door was closed. He blinked, blinded by the amount of light on the white tiles.  
Greg leaned against the sink and caught his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks were still flushed and his lips slightly swollen, his forehead was shiny with sweat, but there was already the paleness of someone who has just seen a ghost.  
He had deep shadows under his eyes and there was such a darkness at the bottom of his gaze, that he withdrew from the mirror. Almost unconsciously, he went for the shower. He opened blindly one of the knob and did not care about adjusting the water temperature, until he felt his skin burning and saw the steam covering the glass walls.  
He was still in a strange mood, but the shower helped him to order his own thoughts. He dried himself from head to food, scrubbing the towel a little rudely, trying to ignore how his skin was still oversensitive. He opened the bathroom cabinet and he wasn’t surprised at all when he found a first aid kit. Greg carefully cleaned his puffy cheekbone, blowing through his teeth at the burning sensation. He controlled the bruises on his chest and disinfected also the little cuts on his hands.  
He lingered, wondering if he had to cover himself with a towel to come out of the bathroom. But Mycroft Holmes had stepped outside gloriously naked – there was no reason DI Lestrade couldn’t do the same. In spite of this, he opened the door slowly, only to find the room empty.  
The night lamp was alight and Mycroft’s pocket watch and cuff-links were still there. Greg didn’t want to think about the meaning of those details and he focused on the fact that the blankets and the pillow had been replaced.  
The sight of the bed reminded him he needed to sleep. He slipped under the blankets, one hand behind his head and the other on his belly, trying to be comfortable, closing his eyes and hoping to fall asleep soon. _Not soon enough_ , because he felt the bed slightly shifting, when Mycroft climbed on it. His eyes fluttered open, even if Mycroft had turned off the light and the room was filled by shadows, because he did not want to be suspected of faking his sleep.  
If Mycroft was surprised to find him still awake, he did not show.  
He leaned over him and put his left hand on his chest, repeating the same gesture they both remembered. Then he kissed him.  
Shock forced a light moan out of Greg’s lips and Mycroft made the most of it: he run his tongue on the disclosed lips. But it was just a moment, because the kiss was more the pressure of Mycroft’s mouth on his, and passion a soft shade in it. It was not a promise, nor a request. The kiss seemed, instead, a _statement_. About what, Greg could not say – asking Mycroft would have been perfectly useless.  
The man’s lips left his; his fingers lingered a moment, as if he wanted to flavour another dart of his heart against the ribs. Lestrade kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, still not daring to close his lips – he knew he was going to find the taste of Mycroft’s mouth on them. He felt him settling on the bed. Greg wanted to say something, but he fell asleep before grasping the right words. 

***

Greg brushed his face on the pillow, closing tighter his eyelids to protect himself from the light filling the room and conquering the bed, licking at his shoulders and head. He closed his arms on the pillow, hid his eyes in the hollow of the left elbow; he felt the damp mark of his mouth on the pillowcase. Suddenly, he was awake.  
 _Fuck, fuck, fuck. Breath.  
_ He did it, slowly, and his brain wriggled like a fish caught in the net. He cautiously focused on the events of the past night.  
He had to call John Watson. He had promised to inform him and then he had forgotten. Lestrade slightly rose, looking for his coat where he had left the cell phone, and that was the moment when he realized he was alone in the bed.  
He sit up and brushed his palms on his face. The window showed him a cloudless sky, luminous and grey. Greg left the bed and went for the bathroom. He turned the tap on and stooped to drink a mouthful of water, then he washed his face. The cold water helped him to vanish the sleepiness, a good piss lightened the uneasiness about him and the wound on his cheekbone gave him something to do for a couple of minutes.  
He noticed his clothes were gone. They were not on the floor nor on the armchair, where he had let them fall. They were neither on the desk chair, nor on the stand behind the door, nor in the wardrobe. Greg began to feel very nervous, for he knew exactly what was his last chance to not go down stark naked.  
 _The dressing gown_. He had seen it immediately, but he had hoped it was not meant for him.  
It was dark green, carefully folded and put on a bed corner. Gregory Lestrade had _never_ used a dressing gown: in his view of the world, a dressing gown was just close to the opera. Nothing against the enthusiasts, but his instinct suggested him that those people were living a very different life from his, and he had little to share with them.  
His defiance was sharpened by the suspicion that Mycroft Holmes knew perfectly well what he was doing – how he was torturing him. He was tempted to choose a towel instead, but maybe it was just what the host was expecting from him. _To hell_. He put up the dressing gown, tied the belt and went down...on naked feet - there were also matched slippers, obviously, but his patience was over.  
His stomach was unpleasantly empty. And he needed a cup of coffee. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked at his right and then at his left, uncertain.  
“The breakfast is served in the hall, which you can find behind the first door on your left.”  
Mycroft Holmes’s PA appeared at his side, without warning. Lestrade stared, astonished.  
The young woman had already turned away his attention, busy typing on her Blackberry.  
Greg cleared his throat and she raised his head, frowning.  
“Yes?”  
“How long have you been here?”  
“An hour and forty-five minutes, Detective Inspector. I have been informed this morning that Mr Holmes needed me,” she answered, with a quick smile, giving him the impression his question had annoyed and amused her at the same time.  
The woman’s eyes were back to the screen of the Blackberry and Greg understood that their conversation – sort of – was over.  
So Holmes had decided to involve his PA in... _what?_ In the boy’s death? Or in the fact that Greg was forced in a dressing gown because he didn’t know where his clothes were? _Right_ , maybe she knew something about it...but when Lestrade turned, the girl had put on the earphones and was on the threshold of another room, chatting in a language he didn’t even try to understand – Japanese, maybe.  
His stomach gave a rumble and Greg decided to get to the hall.  
Mycroft had already taken his seat at the table, in the hall flooded by the pearly morning light. The heavy curtains, as the tapestry, were a shade of blue which Greg didn’t know the name for, but he was sure Holmes could have helped him.  
The hall looked slightly menacing, with its dark furniture, the huge stone chimneypiece and the coffered ceiling. One end of the table had been set for breakfast: a concert of cups and jugs, white and carefully folded napkins, silver cutlery and decorated china dishes. And, obviously, more than Gregory Lestrade could ever imagine for breakfast: warm bread, butter and jams, orange juice and coffee, tea and milk, then _brioches_ and scones but also sausages, eggs and bacon. Looming over it, Mycroft Holmes.  
His posture was flawless and he was pouring his tea. He was completely dressed – _always a step ahead_ – in a grey three-pieces suit, yellow the tie and the silk of the handkerchief in the front pocket of the jacket.  
Naturally the table had been set also for the DI, right in front of Mycroft. While approaching his chair, Lestrade noticed the small cushion on it. He didn’t know if he was supposed to be grateful or furious, but whatever was his reaction, it was annihilated by Mycroft’s gaze.  
“Good morning, Gregory.”  
Mycroft put down the teapot, gently. His thin fingers uncovered the sugar bowl.  
“morning,” Greg mumbled.  
He sit down a little too abruptly and he regretted it, because Holmes had surely not missed the twinge of pain of his body. Mycroft was turning the spoon in the cup, waiting for the sugar to melt. The DI had already taken off his eyes, but he sensed Mycroft’s gaze burning his skin.  
He filled his cup with coffee and took two slices of bread, smearing them with butter, much more carefully he had ever done in his life. He was about to bite the first slice, when he raised his head.  
Mycroft was drinking from his cup of tea.  
“Last night,” Greg begun, feeble, “there was no one but us and the boy in the fog. Right?”  
The man put down his cup again.  
“Why do you ask?”  
“Because there was a moment, when the boy hit my face with the Browning...I thought I was going to die, stuck on the ground, but suddenly I was free from his weight. It was like someone had taken him away from me,” he explained, cautious, trying to remember exactly what happened. “I am not sure you...”  
“It wasn’t me,” Mycroft confirmed.  
“I guessed. No sign of fight, not on your clothes nor...”  
 _On your body_. The conclusion drifted at mid-air and Mycroft gave a lovely smile.  
Lestrade frowned.  
“Who was then?” he insisted.  
“Are you thinking about my PA?” Holmes asked. “I learned to not underestimate my PA’s resources and abilities, but she had not been here before this morning.”  
“It’s exactly what she said to me herself,” Greg admitted, absently watching his buttered toast.  
“Everything about last night you’re not able to relate to the logic is obviously due to the fog.”  
Lestrade nodded, still disappointed. On the other side, what could he possibly tell him? He had seen Sherlock Holmes in the mist and, for a moment, he had thought it was him against the boy. _But a moment later you were thinking he was a demon of revenge_ , a little and spiteful voice in his head reminded him. No reason to bother Holmes with the story of his visions.  
Greg was not even sure about the hidden meaning in Mycroft’s words: was he referring to the fight in the garden or to what happened in the room upstairs?  
“Do you prefer to bottom, Gregory?”                              
He choked on the coffee and started to cough. His eyes full of tears, Greg took the glass in front of him – it was filled with water. He wondered if it was another care of Mycroft’s, just like the cushion on the chair.  
“I don’t know,” he whispered, eventually, his voice still a bit hoarse.  
“Good, because I like variety,” Mycroft replied, smoothly.  
 _Odd, but not impossible_ , Greg told himself, making a face. Then he realized those words were implying they were going to see each other again under that...light. His eyes fell on Mycroft’s right hand and on the ring he wore: the wedding band had always been there, since their first meeting.  
But now it captured Lestrade’s gaze – and thoughts – as never before. Mycroft could not have missed his glance, but no explanation came.  
Suddenly Mycroft was on his feet. He had left the food untouched.  
“I really should join my PA. I didn’t want to involve her, but her discretion and efficiency will be useful to sort out our accident with the boy.”  
“Can I help you?” Greg asked, instinctively.  
Mycroft’s expression softened, slightly, but it was just a fleeting impression.  
“No. Unfortunately, the boy is now unable to give us useful information, but there was no other way. He was a danger to my safety, and yours and John’s.”  
Greg tightened his lips, but he didn’t speak.  
“Do you think you could go back to London alone?” Mycroft asked. “Or I could...”  
“No, I’m perfectly able to," Lestrade cut in, a little abruptly.  
Mycroft nodded, distracted. Greg understood his mind was already busy about his appointments. And Lestrade had been clearly invited to leave.  
“I took the liberty of asking my PA to bring you new clothes. They’re, like your personal effects, in the room upstairs,” Mycroft informed him, when he was on the threshold.  
Then he disappeared behind the door, making their parting a lot easier. Lestrade took a long sip of coffee. He didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to feel. On the contrary, he wasn’t even sure he was authorized to feel something, according to Mycroft Holmes’s plans.  
  
An hour later, Mycroft was again in the hall. The table had been cleared, the cups and the linen tablecloth replaced by files and documents signed by stamps of different colours. He was moving from one to another, reading a paragraph, leaving a note in his meticulous calligraphy, comparing information.  
The soft scratching of the pen on the paper and the hiss of the pages rippled the silence of the cottage. His PA had just left for London, after Detective Inspector Lestrade. He raised his head: beyond the windows, he could see the greenish surface of the pond, speckled by the morning light. He half-closed his eyelids, looking at the silhouette on the window glass.  
“How much time did it take for you to understand?”  
Sherlock’s deep voice seemed to fill the hall. Mycroft lowered his gaze. He wrote a brief note, then he put down the pen.  
“Too much. You should be satisfied with yourself,” he assured, without turning to him.  
Sherlock moved, quick and silent, in a beat of the folds of his dark coat on his thin body. On the other side of the table, he closed his hands on the shiny wood. His older brother was watching him: Sherlock was worn out – Mycroft calculated he had lost more than a couple of pounds, his lips were pale and he seemed devoured by something which had made his gaze unbalanced.  
Like he was always about to watch behind his shoulders.  
He was waiting for an explanation, obviously.  
“I believed you were dead, just like everyone did. It was really brilliant and I would be pleased to know the details...although I have some ideas about what and who had been useful to the play. Miss Hooper, for example,” Mycroft revealed, with nonchalance. He caught the brief quiver in his brother’s expression and he smiled. “Oh, no, you should not doubt her commitment, nor fear about her safety. I didn’t try to _interrogate_ her, but her loyalty exceeds her ability of hiding her emotions: the way she avoided John Watson, her reticence, her nervousness...I could have blamed the sorrow for your loss, but I realized there was something else. I believed she felt guilty, like others did,” and he paused, but this time Sherlock didn’t even blink. “You concealed the evidence in plain sight: Doctor Hooper was the one who could testify your death. But the final proof had been given to me by the boy. He had sensed there was something wrong, maybe he had even _seen_ something...and he was looking for you, you and the key code. He broke in our London house, do you know?” he asked, winning another flinch. “I didn’t understand why someone was interested in our old house, which had been deserted for years and whose doors no one of us wish to pass. Obviously, if you were alive like the boy suspected, it was probable you were hiding in a family property. And now I understand,” Mycroft continued. “Truth is, I owe Gregory this understanding. He was the one who put me on the boy’s trail: fortunately, I thought safer _controlling_ his cell phone and I foresee the boy’s destination. He had been the one who had drawn my attention on the incongruities of your death, revealing the motives of your suicide. When I understood your death was the price for their lives, it was almost easy imagining you could have paid with a fake coin.”  
“ _Gregory_ ,” Sherlock repeated, disdainful.  
 _Good choice to taunt me_ , Mycroft thought. But he didn’t give the impression of picking up the implicit offence in his little brother’s tone.  
“Yes, Gregory,” he said again, slowly, his voice quiet and warm rolling up every syllable. “One of those you saved letting the world think you’re dead,” he added, aiming carefully at the target and smiling softly when Sherlock took offence. Mycroft could not stop himself. “I believe you should _thank_ me. I had kept a close eye on him, I had run here, arriving before him and the boy too, I had warned you...what would have happened if I had not? Oh, probably you would have been able to run away, but what about him?”  
He had gone too far, and Mycroft understood it from the flash of victory in Sherlock’s gaze.  
“ _You_ have many reasons to thank me for his life, Mycroft.”  
The brothers kept each other’s gaze.  
There was the beginning of a smile on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, while, on Mycroft’s face, there was again an untouched layer of composure.  
“You will need my help if you want to continue the play,” Mycroft said, coldly.  
“Oh, the perfect chance to prove your ability to _control_ me _..._ ” Sherlock commented, annoyed.  
“ _To help_ you, Sherlock. To help,” Mycroft corrected him, without trying to be convincing.  
Control was the first kind of help he was able to perform, after all. He saw Sherlock shrugging, like a foam refusing the halter, and then fleeting the light of the windows, to conceal himself in the soft shadows on the other side of the hall.  
“Lestrade could be dangerous,” Sherlock said, somewhere behind him.  
“I know.”  
There was a moment of silence and Mycroft was tempted to ask Sherlock what else did he want from him. Maybe... _apologies?_ He shivered slightly, but when his brother, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes back from the dead, spoke, it was not what Mycroft Holmes was waiting for.  
“Was it _necessary_?”  
He had not to think too much to understand what Sherlock was talking about. He had never doubted about the consulting detective’s ability to read almost everything happened between him and Detective Inspector Lestrade, from their clothes, their smell, their posture and the state of the cottage. It was not important if Sherlock had been in the house last night or not – it was likely, judging from his look, he had slept in the shed.  
Mycroft had not even tried to hidden the evidence. Let’s Sherlock read what he wanted.  
Then Mycroft’s mind was filled with the memory of Gregory’s body, the way lust had painted his eyes – an unfathomable darkness thickening there – and he felt his fingers remembering exactly the soft texture of his grey hair, the tension of the muscles in his thighs, and the sweat mark at the bottom of his backbone.  
Mycroft wondered if Sherlock could read all that, simply from his posture on the chair, from a certain tilt of his head, from the way he was pressing his index finger on the smooth body of the pen and he decided that yes, probably he could.  
“No, it was not necessary,” he replied, eventually.  
 _I wanted it_.  
After some moments, Mycroft turned, just in time to see his brother on the doorway.  
“Ah, Sherlock,” pause. “ _Welcome back_.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know, it's an odd ending - if it's an ending at all.   
> But I planned Avalon as a story placed between season two and season three of the show, so I decided to stop just at the verge of Sherlock's return on the scene. Maybe, one day or another, I'll pick up from here and explore the aftermath of these events, who knows!


End file.
